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THE ROMANCES 


OF 

ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 

NEW SERIES. 


THE BRIGAND. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


THE 

IKomances of 'Hlexantire ©umas. 


ROMANCES OF THE REIGN OF HENRY II. 


I. The Two Dianas 3 vols. 

II. The Page of the duke of Savoy . ... a vols. 

THE VALOIS ROMANCES. 

I. Marguerite de Valois a vols. 

II. La Dame ue Monsoreau 2 vols. 

III. The Forty-Five 2 vok. 

THE D’ARTAQNAN ROMANCES. 

I. The Three Musketeers 2 vols. 

II. Twenty years After 2 vols. 

III. The Vicomte de Bragelonne ; or, Ten Years 

Later 6 vols. 

THE REGENCY ROMANCES. 

I. Le Chevalier D’Harmental i vol. 

II. the Regent’s Daughter 1 vol. 

A ROMANCE OF THE REIGN OF LOUIS XV. 

Olympe de Cloves vols. 

THE MARIE ANTOINETTE ROMANCES. 

I. Memoirs of a physician 3 vols. 

II. The Queen’s Necklace vols 

III. Ange Pitou . vols 

IV. La Comtesse de Charny 4 vols 

V. Le Chevalier de Maison-Rouge 1 vol. 

THE NAPOLEON ROMANCES. 

The Companions of Jehu vols 

The Whites and the Blues vols! 


THE Black tulip i vol 

The Count of Monte Cristo ! 4 vols 

The She-Wolves of Machecoul\ 

The Corsican brothers j '’o*®- 


NEW SERIES. 

ASCANIO ; A Romance of Francis 1. and Benvenuto 


Cellini .......................2 vols. 

The War of women : A Romance of the Fronde . . a vols. 

Black : The Story of a Dog i vol 

Tales of the Caucasus — The Ball of Snow 

AND SULTANETTA vol. 

NEW SERIES. II. 

AGENOR de MAULEON vols. 

The Brigand : A Romance of the Reign of Don 1 

Carlos ( . . I vol. 

Blanche- de Beaulieu 1 


The Horoscope : A Romance of the Reign of F'rancis 

IL vol. 

Sylvandire : A Romance of the Reign of Louis XIV i vol" 

Monsieur de Chauvklin’s Will \ 

The Woman with the Velvet Necklace/ ’ • * 










Homance0 of ^letanDre SDumao. 


NEW SERIES. 


THE BRIGAND, 

A ROMANCE OF THE REION OF 
DON CARLOS. 


TO WHICH IS ADDED 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU, 

A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 


ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 


BOSTON: 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 



L Ur' Ur- n ^- COPIES RECEIVED 



Copyright, 1897, 

By Little, Brown, and Company. 


^Iniijersttg ^ress: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A. 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 


THE BEIGAND. 

In the tale before us, now translated for the first 
time, we are carried back to a period somewhat 
anterior to that dealt with in any other of the 
author’s historical romances included in this edi- 
tion. The great Emperor Charles V., whom we have 
seen in “ Ascanio,” in the prime of life and the pleni- 
tude of power, passing through the dominions of his 
powerful rival, Francis L, whom he had but lately 
held in prison in Madrid, — the French king having 
fallen into his hands after the battle of Pavia, — and 
whom we have seen again in the “ Page of the Duke 
of Savoy,” in the decline of life, laying aside his 
sceptre and resigning his vast dominions to his son 
Philip, preparatory to entering upon the life of mo- 
nastic seclusion and retirement of which our own 
historian, Prescott, has given us so faithful and vivid 
a picture, — the same Charles is here presented to 
us at the outset of his career, when the vast projects 
which he subsequently went so far toward realizing 
were just beginning to take shape in his mind. The 
portrait herein put before us of the man for whom 


VI 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 


‘‘a long train of fortunate events had opened the 
way to the inheritance of more extensive dominions 
than any European monarch since Charlemagne had 
possessed,” is remarkably true to life ; and if, as we 
well may do, we consider him the central character 
of the narrative, the “ Brigand ” is fairly entitled to 
a place in the class of works to which the illustrious 
romancist owes his greatest fame. 

It should be remembered that Philip the Fair 
had never been King of Arragon, as Ferdinand the 
Catholic outlived him many years. Upon the death 
of Isabella, Ferdinand resigned the title of King of 
Castile, and Philip and Joanna were proclaimed 
sovereigns of that kingdom ; on the death of Philip, 
Ferdinand became regent of Castile on account of 
the incapacity of Joanna ; and it was not until the 
death of Ferdinand in 1516 that Charles, then six- 
teen years of age, became the undisputed heir to 
both kingdoms : to Arragon by virtue of Ferdi- 
nand’s will, and to Castile by virtue of the contin- 
ued incapacity of Joanna, — although, as a matter 
of form, he was proclaimed king by the Cortes of 
Castile in conjunction with his mother, it being 
provided that her name should be placed first in all 
public acts, and tliat if she should at any time 
recover her reason, the sole authority should be 
vested in her. 

The disaffection of the Spanish nobles to. their 
Flemish-born king was the most prominent feature 
of all the early part of his reign, no less after than 
before his election to the imperial throne. “ Not- 
withstanding the obsequiousness of the Cortes to 


INTEODUCTORY NOTE. 


vii 

the will of the king,” says the historian Eobertson, 
— speaking of a period immediately subsequent to 
Charles’s first arrival in Spain and to the death of 
Ximenes, who had acted as regent since Ferdi- 
nand’s death, — “the most violent symptoms of dis- 
satisfaction with his government began to break out 
in the kingdom. Chi^vres had acquired over the 
mind of the young monarch the ascendant not only 
of a tutor but of a parent. Charles seemed to have 
no sentiments hut those which his minister in- 
spired, and scarcely uttered a word but what he 
put into his mouth. He was constantly sur- 
rounded by Flemings ; no person got access to him 
without their permission, nor was any admitted to 
audience but in their presence. As he spoke the 
Spanish language very imperfectly, his answers were 
always extremely short, and often delivered with 
hesitation. From all these circumstances, many of 
the Spaniards were led to believe that he was a 
prince of a slow and narrow genius. Some pretended 
to discover a strong resemblance between him and 
his mother, and began to whisper that his capacity 
for government would never be far superior to hers ; 
and though they who had the best opportunity of 
judging concerning his character maintained that, 
notwithstanding such unpromising appearances, he 
possessed a large fund of knowledge as well as of 
sagacity, yet all agreed in condemning his partial- 
ity toward the Flemings and his attachment to his 
favorites as unreasonable and immoderate.” 

Upon leaving Castile and journeying into Arra- 
gon, where he had not thus far been acknowledged 


viii INTEODUCTOEY NOTE. 

as king, Charles found even more disaffection and 
opposition, and only after a long hard struggle did 
he succeed in persuading the Cortes to confer upon 
him the title of king in conjunction with his 
mother. 

The constant preoccupation of Charles during the 
interval between the death of the Emperor Maxi- 
milian and his receipt of the news of his own 
election to succeed him, was taken by Victor Hugo 
as the motif of the sublime monologue in the fourth 
act of “ Hernani,” supposed to be spoken at the tomb 
of Charlemagne at Aix-la-Chapelle, and beginning : 

“ Charlemagne, pardon ! ces voutes solitaires 
Ne devraient repeter que paroles anstferes.” ^ 

There, as here, we find a parallel drawn between 
the emperor and the pope : — 

“ Quand ils sortent, tons deux egaux, du sanctuaire, 

L’un dans sa pourpre, et I’autre avec son blanc suaire, 

L’univers ebloui contemple avec terreur 

Ces deux moities de Dieu, le pape et I’empereur. 

— L’empereur ! I’empereur ! etre empereur I — O rage, 
Ne pas I’etre ! et sentir son coeur plein de courage ! ” ^ 

The king was at Barcelona when he was in- 
formed of Maximilian’s death, — “ an event,” says 
Kobertson, “which interested him much more than 

1 "‘Forgive me, Charlemagne. These solitary vaults should 
echo none but words of gravest import.’’ 

2 “ When they come forth, equal in majesty, one in his purple 

robe, the other in his white sudario, the dazzled world gazes with 
awe at these two halves of God, the pope and emperor. The em- 
peror ! the emperor ! oh ! to be emperor ! 0 God ! to fail ! and 

yet to feel one’s heart aflame with courage ! ” 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 


IX 


the murmurs of the Castilians or the scruples of 
the Cortes of Catalonia.” There, too, — not at 
Granada, — the intelligence of his election reached 
him, having been brought in nine days from Frank- 
fort to Barcelona. “ He received the account ” (of his 
election), says Eobertson, “ with the joy natural to 
a young and aspiring mind on an accession of power 
and dignity which raised him so far above the other 
princes of Europe. Then it was that those vast 
prospects which allured him during his whole ad- 
ministration began to open, and from this era we 
may date the formation, and are able to trace the 
gradual progress, of a grand system of enterprising 
ambition, which renders the history of his reign so 
worthy of attention.” 

The madness of Joanna was doubtless due in 
large measure to the effect upon her of her hus- 
band’s gallant propensities, but it does not appear 
that there is any historical foundation for the epi- 
sode of Queen Topaz and her child, nor that Philip 
died by poison. He is said to have died of a fever 
in his twenty-eighth year. 

The obstacles that Columbus was obliged to over- 
come before he succeeded in obtaining the privi- 
leges he desired from Ferdinand and Isabella are 
interestingly sketched anew; and the purely ficti- 
tious part of the narrative — the sequence of events 
from the rupture between the father of Don Inigo 
and Mercedes and its fortuitous influence upon the 
prospects of Columbus, the instinctive lack of sym- 
pathy between Don Fernand and his putative father 
and its effect upon Fernand’s career, the determina- 


X 


INTRODUCTOKY NOTE. 


tion of Don Carlos to banish brigandage from 
Spain, and the controlling influence wielded by the 
gypsy — is ingeniously worked out and interwoven 
with those portions for which there is historical 
warrant. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 

This episode of the first uprising in La Vendee, and 
incidentally of the Eeign of Terror as it existed un- 
der the auspices of Carrier at Nantes, has not before 
been translated. It is included with other brief 
sketches in a volume entitled “ Souvenirs d’ Antony,” 
in the authorized French edition of the works of 
Dumas. The present publishers have thought it 
well to include it in their series, for two reasons : 
first, because of the intense interest and strength 
of the story itself; second, because it is closely 
connected with the events described in some of the 
volumes heretofore published, and is expressly re- 
ferred to by the author in that connection. In “ La 
Comtesse de Charny ” (vol. iii. page 376 of this edi- 
tion) he says : — 

‘"Our readers are already aware that this is 
an historical work we are writing rather than a 
romance. We shall never probably recur again to 
this great epoch, to which are related two stories 
already published, ‘Blanche de Beaulieu’ and the 
‘ Chevalier de Maison-Eouge,’ ” etc. 

There is no nobler and more pathetic figure of 
the French revolutionary era than that of young 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 


XI 


Marceau, whose republicanism, as Dumas says, was 
so pure that his name protected his family no less 
than himself from any shadow of suspicion, and 
who, at the same time, was absolutely free, not only 
from participation in but from sympathy with the 
excesses and horrors which have done so much to 
blind the most impartial observers to the wonder- 
ful results achieved by the French Eevolution. 
He was born at Chartres in 1769, and first enlisted 
in 1785 ; he distinguished himself greatly in the 
Ardennes in 1792, and was made general of divi- 
sion in the following year, when he commanded 
in La Vendee; he turned defeat into victory at 
Fleurus in 1794, and took Coblentz in the same 
year and Kbnigstein in 1796. He was mortally 
wounded in a recon noissance at Altenkirchen in 
Ehenish Prussia, in September, 1796, and died three 
days later. 

The various outbreaks of civil discord in La 
Vendee and Bretagne throughout the revolutionary 
period in 1793, 1796, and 1799, have occupied the at- 
tention of the greatest of French writers : Victor Hugo 
in “Ninety-three,” Balzac in “The Chouans,” and 
Dumas himself in “ The Companions of Jehu ” and 
“ The Whites and the Blues.” The sketch translated 
in the following pages describes an episode in the first 
Vendean war, which might very well have happened 
at that time and in those regions, under the auspices 
of the justly execrated Carrier, than whom no more 
detestable figure has ever soiled the pages of history. 
It is made doubly interesting by the assignment of 
the leading role to an historical character so justly 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 


xii 

revered as Marceau, and to the casual appearance 
of the elder Dumas, for whom his son seems to 
have had a feeling of profound veneration, surpass- 
ing filial affection. The author’s memoirs tell with 
pride and satisfaction of the firm, unyielding stand 
taken by his father, the general, in opposition to 
the “ representatives of the people,” in the same La 
Vendee, at a period when such opposition was more 
than likely to lead to the guillotine. His report as 
to the condition of affairs in the Army of the West 
was the cause of his transfer to the Army of the 
Alps at about the time when the action of this story 
is supposed to take place. The last part of the 
general’s life was darkened by a serious misunder- 
standing with Berthier, and through him with 
Napoldon, and when he died, in 1807, he no longer 
held a commission in the army. His bold stand in 
behalf of more humane measures in dealing with 
the Vendean insurgents won for him the name of 
Monsieur VHumanitL Says the author in his “ Md- 
moires ” ; “ Deny my right to the name of Davy de 
la Pailleterie, if you will, messieurs, but you cannot 
deny that I am the son of a man who was called 
Horatins Codes before the enemy and Monsieur 
VHumanite before the scaffold.” 

The brief scene at the Oddon, rechristened “ The- 
atre de la Nation,” is one of the most graphic and 
interesting among the many that we owe to the 
gifted pen of the author of the “ Three Musketeers.” 
Danton and the Dantonists were soon to fall. 
Danton was guillotined April 15, 1794, and only 
three months later, on July 28, the Incorruptible 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 


Xlll 


himself, the representative on earth of the Supreme 
Being, and worshipped by Catherine Theot as the 
Messiah, followed him to the scaffold, and the Keign 
of Terror was at an end. Whether Kobespierre’s 
motives were purely selfish, or whether his ambi- 
tion was a noble and honorable one, based upon a 
virtuous, single-hearted desire to deserve well of his 
country, is a question that can never be settled ; but 
he is the one figure who, more than Marat, Mira- 
beau, or Danton, represents the French Eevolution 
in the eyes of the vast majority of mankind. 


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THE BRIGAND. 



LIST OF CHARACTERS. 

Period, 1492-1519. 


Don Carlos, King of Spain, afterwards Emperor Charles V. 

Philip the I father and mother. 

Joanna the Mad, > 

Pope Leo X. 

Perdinand, King of Arragon. 

Isabella, Queen of Castile, 

Beatrice, Marchioness of Moya, her friend. 

Christopher Columbus. 

Archbishop Don Ferdinand de Talavera. 

Don Luis de Saint-Angel, > , • p n i i 

„ , „ ’ > partisans of Columbus. 

Don Alonzo de Quintanilla, > 

Don Inigo Velasco de Haro, grand justiciary of Andalusia. 
Dona Floe, his daughter. 

Don Ramiro d’ Avila, in love with Doha Flor. 

Don Ruiz de Torrillas. 

Dona Mercedes, his wife. 

Don Fernand, her son, the Salteador (chief of a band of brigands) 
Cardinal Adrian, of Utrecht, tutor to 
Don Carlos, 

Count of Chi^vres, his minister, 

Count of Lachan, 

Count of Porcian, 

Lord of Furnes, 

Lord of Beaurain, 

Amersdorff, 

Lord Duke of Bavaria, 


of the Flemish suite of 
Don Carlos. 


XVlll 


LIST OF CHARACTEKS. 


Ginesta, a gypsy, natural daughter of Philip the Pair. 
Topaz, a gypsy queen, her mother. 

Beatrice, Pernand’s nurse. 

Vicente, a brigand. 

Host op the Moorish King Inn. 


Gil, 

Amapolaj 


his servants. 


CONTENTS 


THE BRIGAND. 

Chapteb Pagb 

I, The Sierka Nevada 1 

II. The Courier of Love 11 

III. Don Inigo Velasco de Haro 19 

IV. Ferdinand and Isabella 27 

V. Dona Flor 37 

VI. The Interior of the Moorish King Inn . 50 

VII. The Brigand 61 

VIII. The Narrative 70 

IX. The Oak of Dona Mercedes 82 

X. The Fire on the Mountain 91 

XI. The Dove’s Nest 99 

XII. King Don Carlos 109 

XIII. Don Ruiz de Torrillas 121 

XIV. The Grand Justiciary 128 

XV. The Courtyard of Lions 135 

XVI. Queen Topaz 144 

XVII. The Bed of State 153 

XVIII. The Brother and Sister 161 

XIX. The Assault 171 

XX. Hospitality 180 

XXL The Field of Battle 186 

XXII. The Key 193 

XXIIL The Prodigal Son 201 

XXIV. Don Ramiro 210 

XXV. The Anemone 220 


XX 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter Page 

XXVI. The Malediction 229 

XXVII. River and Mountain Torrent .... 237 

XXVIII. The Boar Keeps the Dogs at Bay . . 245 

XXIX. The Eve op the Denouement .... 253 

XXX. The Confession 261 

Conclusion 277 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU ........ 287 


y 


THE BRIGAND. 


I. 

THE SIERRA NEVADA. 

Among all the mountain chains which traverse Spain in 
every direction, from Bilbao to Gibraltar and from Ali- 
cante to Cape Finisterre, the most poetic, beyond con- 
trovers}’’, both by reason of its picturesque aspect and its 
historic souvenirs, is the Sierra Nevada, which is a con- 
tinuation of the Sierra de Guaro, being separated from it 
only by the lovely valley through which flows one of the 
feeders of the little river Orgiva, which empties into the 
sea between Alnmnecar and Motril. 

There, even in our day, everything is still Arabian: 
manners, costumes, names of towns, monuments, land- 
scapes; and that, too, although the Moors abandoned the 
kingdom of the Almohades two centuries and a half ago. 

This region, which came into their hands through the 
treachery of Count Julian, was the chosen land of the 
sons of the Prophet. Situated between Africa and 
Europe, Andalusia is, so to speak, an intermediate coun- 
try which shares the beauties of the one and the wealth 
of the other, without their melancholy and rigid features : 
there is the luxuriant vegetation of the Metidja watered 
by the cool waters of the Pyrenees ; the scorching heat of 


2 


THE BRIGAND. 


Tunis and the harsh climate of Russia are alike un- 
known. Hail, Andalusia ! sister of Sicily, rival of the 
Fortunate Islands ! 

Live, love, and die as joyously as if ye were at Kaples, 
ye who have the good fortune to dwell in Seville, Granada, 
or Malaga ! 

I have seen at Tunis Moors who showed me the keys 
of their houses in Granada. They inherited them from 
their fathers, and expected to bequeath them to their 
children. 

And if their children ever return to the city of Aben- 
el-Hamar, they will find there the street and the house 
in which they dwelt, but little changed in the two hun- 
dred and forty-four years that have elapsed between 1610 
and 1854, except that the wealthy population of five 
hundred thousand souls has been reduced to eighty thou- 
sand ; so that, in all probability, the hereditary key will 
open the door either of an empty house or of one of which 
their indolent successors have not even taken the trouble 
to change the lock. 

In truth, nothing Spanish has flourished on that soil, 
whose natural products are the palm, the cactus, and the 
aloe, — nothing, not even the palace which the devout 
Charles V. began to build in order not to inhabit the 
abode of the emirs and caliphs, and which, being domi- 
nated by the Alhambra, never succeeded, under the 
mocking glance of its rival, in rising higher than a single 
floor. 

Embracing all those marvels of an art and a civilization 
which its present inhabitants will never attain, the king- 
dom of Granada, the last remnant and last example of the 
Arab empire in Spain, stretched along the shores of the 
Mediterranean, from Tarifa to Almazarron — that is to say, 
about a hundred and twenty-five leagues, — and extended 


THE SIERRA NEVADA. 3 

into the interior from Motril to Jaen ; that is to say, from 
thirty-five to forty leagues. 

The Sierra de Guaro and the Sierra Nevada cut it 
about two-thirds of its length. 

From the summit of Mulahacen, the highest peak, the 
eye ranged over the whole territory, from end to end. 

To the south the Mediterranean, a vast sheet of blue, 
stretching from Almunecar to Algiers ; to the north the 
vega of Granada, — an immense green carpet stretching 
from Huelma to the venta of Cardenas. 

And, to the east and west, the endless chain of snow- 
covered peaks, each of which seems like the suddenly 
frozen wave of an ocean rising in revolt against the sky. 

Lastly, upon a lower level, to the right and left of that 
sea of ice, a double ocean of mountains falling away 
gradually to hills, covered near the top with powdery 
lichens, then with reddish heather, then with dark fir- 
trees, then with green oaks, then with yellowish cork- 
trees, then with trees of all sorts mingling their different 
shades of color, but with open spaces between carpeted 
with low-growing shrubs, the arbutus, mastic, and myrtle. 

To-day three roads, one starting from Motril, another 
from Velez-Malaga, and the third from Malaga, cross the 
snow-capped Sierra, and lead from the coast to Granada, 
the first by way of Joyena, the second by Alcaacin, the 
third by Colmenar. 

But at the time when this narrative opens, — that is to 
say in the early days of June, 1519, — those roads did not 
exist, or rather were represented only by paths, faintly 
marked, which the feet of the arrieros and their mules 
alone traversed with insolent security. These paths, 
rarely perceptible on level ground, wound through gorges 
and over mountain-tops with alternations of ascent and 
descent which seemed to be provided for the express pur- 


4 


THE BEIGAND. 


pose of trying the patience of travellers. From time to 
time the narrow thoroughfare wound about some perpen- 
dicular cliff, red and hot like a gigantic Egyptian pylon, 
and at such times the traveller and his indifferent steed 
were literally suspended over the chasm into which his 
frightened eyes gazed. The steeper the path, the hotter 
the rock became, and the greater the risk that the foot of 
man or beast would slip on that smooth granite, which 
the steps of many caravans, by wearing away its asperi- 
ties, had finally made as polished and slippery as 
marble. 

To be sure, when you had once passed that eagle’s 
nest called the Alhama, the road became less difficult, 
and descended gradually — assuming that you came from 
Malaga and were going to Granada — to the valley of 
Joyena ; but in that case, what might be called a physi- 
cal danger was succeeded by a danger which was none 
the less present to the imagination because it remained 
invisible up to the moment when it became imminent: as 
soon as the two sides of the path became practicable and 
afforded hiding-places in the thick underbrush, the afore- 
said two sides of the path bristled with crosses bearing 
ominous inscriptions. 

Those crosses marked the graves of travellers assassi- 
•nated by the numerous bands of brigands who, in those 
days of civil discord, particularly infested the sierras of 
Cordova and Granada ; that is to say, the Sierra Morena 
and Sierra Nevada. 

The inscriptions upon the crosses left no doubt as to 
the manner of death of those who rested in their shadow. 
While crossing those same Sierras three centuries after 
the travellers whom we propose in a few moments to in- 
troduce to our readers, we saw crosses similar to those we 
describe, and we copied these inscriptions from their 


THE SIERRA NEVADA. 5 

fateful cross-bars, — inscriptions ill-calculated to reassure 
those who might read them : — 

Here 

A Traveller was Assassinated. 

Pray God for his Soul 1 

Here 

The Son and the Father were Assassinated. 

They Rest in the Same Grave. 

God have Mercy on their Souls I 

But the most common inscription is this : — 

Aqui Mataron UN Hombre. 

Which means simply : A man was killed here. 

This mortuary hedge, as it were, extended for a league 
and a half, or two leagues; that is to say, all the way 
•across the valley; then the path crossed a little stream 
which, skirting the village of Cacin, empties into the 
Xenil, and entered the second part of the Sierra. This 
second part, it should be said, was much less rough and 
difficult of passage than the first. The path wandered 
about in a vast forest of pines; but it had left behind 
the narrow defiles and perpendicular cliifs. You felt 
that you had reached more temperate regions ; and after 
travelling about a league and a half among the sinuosities 
of a wooded mountain, you espied at last a sort of para- 
dise to which you descended down a gentle slope, over a 
carpet of turf dotted with the sweet-smelling broom 
plant with its yellow flowers and the arbutus with red 
berries like strawberries, but with a slightly coarse flavor 
that reminds one of the taste of the banana rather than 
of the luscious fruit it resembles. 

Upon reaching that point in his journey, the pilgrim 
might well heave a sigh of satisfaction ; for it seemed 


6 


THE BRIGAND. 


that, having got so far, he was deJivered thenceforth 
from the twofold danger he had escaped : of being 
crushed by rolling over some precipice, and of being 
assassinated by some ill-disposed brigand. 

On the left-hand side of the path, about a fourth of a 
league away, could he seen a small building, having 
something of the appearance of an inn and of a fortress, 
and gleaming white in the sunlight as if its walls were 
of chalk. 

It had a terrace with a crenellated parapet and an 
oaken door with iron bars and spikes. 

Above the door was painted the bust of a man with a 
swarthy face, black heard, and turbaned head, holding a 
sceptre in his hand. 

This inscription was carved beneath the painting: 

El Rey Moro.i 

Although there was nothing to indicate that this Moorish 
king, under whose auspices the inn was conducted, was 
the last sovereign of that race who reigned in Granada, 
it was none the less evident to every man who was not 
wholly unversed in the noble art of painting, that the 
artist intended to represent the son of Zoraya, Ahu- 
Ahdallah, surnamed Al-Zaquir, whom Elorian took for 
one of the principal characters in his play of “ Gonzalvo 
of Cordova” under the name of Boahdil. 

Our haste to follow the example of all travellers and to 
put our horse at a gallop in order to reach the inn, has 
led us to neglect to glance, in passing, at a person, who, 
although she seems at first sight to be of humble station, 
is none the less deserving of a particular description. 

To he sure, the person in question was hidden by the 
shade of an old oak and by the inequalities of the ground. 

1 The King of the Moors. 


THE SIERRA NEVADA. 


7 


She was a girl of some sixteen to eighteen years, who, 
in certain respects, seemed to belong to some Moorish 
tribe, although in others she was entitled to claim a 
place in the great European family ; the fruit probably 
of a union of the two races, she formed an intermedi- 
ate link which presented a curious commingling of the 
ardent, magical charm of the woman of the South with 
the sweet, soft beauty of the virgin of the North. Her 
hair, which was so intensely black that it bad the bluish 
sheen of the raven’s wing, fell about her neck, forming a 
frame for a face of regular outline and of matchless dig- 
nity. Great eyes as blue as periwinkles, shaded by 
lashes and eyebrows of the color of the hair ; a milk-white 
complexion ; lips as red as cherries ; teeth to put pearls to 
shame ; a neck whose every undulation was as graceful 
and supple as the swan’s ; arms rather long but of perfect 
shape ; a figure as flexible as that of the reed reflected in 
the lake, or the palm-tree swaying gently in the breeze 
in the oasis : feet whose diminutive size and perfect form 
were hidden by no covering, — such were the physical 
characteristics of the individual to whom we take the 
liberty to draw the reader’s attention. 

As for her costume, barbaric in its oddity, it consisted 
first of a wreath of Virginia creeper taken from the 
trellis of the little house we have already described, its 
green leaves and purple flowers harmonizing admirably 
with her jet black hair. Her neck was embellished with 
a chain composed of flat rings of the thickness of a gold 
philip, linked together, and giving forth yellow rays that 
seemed like tongues of flame. Her dress, of a strange 
cut, was made of one of the striped silk stuffs with alter- 
nate dull and bright stripes, which were then woven in 
Granada, and are still manufactured in Algiers, Tunis, 
and Smyrna. The waist was encircled by a Seville girdle 


8 


THE BRIGAND. 


with gold fringe, such as is worn in our day by the ele- 
gant majoy who goes forth to serenade his mistress with 
his guitar under his arm. If the dress and the belt had 
been new, they would perhaps have offended the eye with 
the somewhat too pronounced tones of the brilliant colors , 
that Arabs and Spaniards love ; hut the wear and tear of 
long usage had made of the costume a charming en- 
sembley which would have rejoiced the eye of Titian at 
the time, and, later, would have made Paul Veronese’s 
heart leap for joy. 

The strangest thing about the girl — although this 
anomaly is more common in Spain than elsewhere, and 
was more common there at the time of which we write 
than at any other time — the strangest thing about the 
girl, we repeat, was the contrast between the splendor of 
her costume and the humble nature of her occupation. 
Seated on a large stone, at the foot of one of the funereal 
crosses of which we have spoken, in the shade of an 
enormous green oak, dabbling her feet in a brook whose 
gleaming water covered them as with a veil of silver, she 
was spinning with distaff and spindle. 

Close beside her, clinging to the rocks and browsing 
on the bitter clover, as Virgil hath it, was a goat, a rest- 
less adventurous creature, the usual property of him who 
has nothing. 

And, as she turned the spindle with her left hand, 
drew the thread with her right hand, and looked down 
at her feet, around which the water bubbled and whis- 
pered, the girl sang beneath her breath a sort of popular 
refrain, which, instead of being the expression of her 
thoughts, seemed simply to serve as an accompaniment 
to the voice which murmured at the bottom of her heart, 
and which no one heard. 

From time to time, not to call her to her side, but rather 


THE SIERKA NEVADA. 


9 


as if to say a kind word to her, the songstress ceased 
singing and working, and called her goat by the Arabian 
word which designates her species; and whenever the 
goat heard the word Maza^ she shook her head rebel- 
liously, making her little silver bell tinkle, and returned 
to her browsing. 

These are the words the spinner sang, to a slow, 
monotonous air, whose dominant notes we have heard 
on the plains of Tangier and in the mountains of 
Kabylie. 

It was the romancero known in Spain as the “ Ballad 
of King Don Fernand.” 

“ O Granada, my beloved ! 

Thou with the golden girdle. 

Be my wife, be mine forever ! 

Take for thy dowry, in Castile, 

Three convents with their cells, 

Three strongholds with their dungeons. 

Three cities with their towers. 

“ Search, in thy jealous humor, 

This lovely casket, Andalusia, 

Which the Lord hath bestowed on me. 

If in thy fickle mood, 

Giralda doth thy fancy move, 

‘ We will e'en steal Giralda 
From malcontent Seville. 

“ And what Seville may say, 

And what Castile may say, 

Now, or a hundred years hence. 

It matters not, Granada ! 

So let the wind fly hence with it 1 
Open thy gates to me, Granada ; 

I am King Don Fernand 1 ” 


10 


THE BRIGAND. 


At that moment she raised her head to call her goat; 
but she had hardly pronounced the word Maza, before 
her voice died away and her eyes became fixed on the 
most distant point of the road coming from Alhama. 

A young man appeared on the horizon, galloping as 
fast as his Andalusian horse could carry him down the 
slope of the mountain, intersected by broad hands of 
shadow or sunlight according as the trees were many 
or few. 

The girl looked at him for a moment, then returned to 
her work; and as she continued to spin more absent- 
mindedly than before, as if, although no longer looking 
at him, she were listening to his approach, she went on 
with the fourth stanza of her ballad, — the reply to King 
Don Fernand. 

“ 0 King Don Fernand, I love thee 1 
But — cursed be the day ! — 

I have for master an exacting Moor 
Who holds me in durance, 

A poor, crowned slave. 

Fettered with chains of gold. 

In bis tower with the silver keys ! ” 


THE COUKIER OF LOVE. 


11 


II. 

THE COURIER OF LOVE. 

While the spinner was singing this last stanza, the 
horseman had drawn so near that, by raising her head, 
she could distinguish his costume and his features. 

He was a comely young man of twenty five or six, with 
a hroad-brimmed hat, whose flame-colored plume followed 
the curve of the crown at first, then parted from it to 
wave proudly in the air. 

Beneath the shadow projected by his hat brim on his 
face, which was thus in a sort of half-light, could be seen 
the gleam of two black eyes which it was easy to divine 
would readily light up with the flame of anger or the fire 
of love. His straight, perfectly shaped nose surmounted 
a pair of mustaches slightly curved at the ends, and be- 
tween them and the heard on the chin could be seen two 
rows of magnificent teeth, white and sharp as a jackal’s. 

He was enveloped, in spite of the heat, perhaps be- 
cause of the heat, in one of those Cordovan cloaks, cut 
like a South American poncho ^ with a slit in the middle 
for the head to pass through, which cover the horseman 
from the shoulders to the toes of his hoots. This cloak, 
of the same flame-color as the plume in the hat, and 
trimmed with gold embroidery around the outer edge 
and around the opening at the neck, covered a costume 
which, if one could judge from the small portion of it 
that was visible, — that is to say, from the ends of the 
sleeves and the ribbons on the short-clothes, — was of 
the greatest elegance. 


12 


THE BRIGAND. 


As for his horse, which he managed like a consummate 
horseman, he was a beautiful animal, five or six years old, 
with graceful neck, waving mane, sturdy quarters, tail 
sweeping the ground, and coat of the priceless shade that 
the last queen of Castile, Isabella, had brought into 
fashion ; it was a marvellous thing in very truth that, in 
view of the ardent nature by which both were animated, 
horse and rider had succeeded in riding over the rough 
paths we have tried to describe, without being hurled ten 
times over into the precipices of Alcaacin or Alhama. 

A Spanish proverb says that there is a god for drunk- 
ards and a goddess for lovers. 

Our cavalier had not the appearance of a drunken 'man; 
but it must be said that he was as much like a lover as 
one drop of water is like another. 

A fact that rendered that resemblance incontrovertible 
was that the cavalier passed our young girl without look- 
ing at her, and probably without seeing her, his eyes 
were gazing so intently straight ahead and his heart had 
so entirely gone from his keeping; and yet certain it is 
that King Don Carlos himself, virtuous and continent as 
he was despite his nineteen years, would have ventured 
to draw rein before her, she was so lovely as she raised 
her head to look at the handsome traveller and murmured ; 

“ Poor boy ! it ’s a pity ! ” 

Why did the spinner pity the traveller? To what 
danger, present or prospective, did she allude ? 

That is something that we shall probably ascertain if 
we accompany the elegant caballero to the inn of the 
Moorish King. 

To reach that inn, which he seemed in such haste to 
reach, he had to pass two or three other hollows substan- 
tially like that in which the young girl was sitting when 
he passed without seeing her, or rather without looking 


THE COURIER OF LOVE. 


13 


at her. In the centre of each of these little valleys, 
through which the road ran, no more than eight or ten 
feet wide, cutting through a dense undergrowth of 
myrtle, mastics, and arbutus, stood two or three crosses, 
indicating that the proximity of the inn had by no means 
preserved travellers from the fate which seemed so com- 
mon that they who passed over the roads on which so 
many others had perished must have had their hearts 
protected by that triple steel of which Horace speaks, 
apropos of the first navigator. As he approached those 
ill-omened spots, the horseman contented himself by 
making sure that his sword was still hanging at his side 
and his pistols at his saddle-bow ; and when he had so 
assured himself with a mechanical rather than anxious 
movement, he passed the evil place — el malo sitio, as 
they say in Spain — at the same gait and with the same 
tranquil face. 

When he reached the highest point of the road, he 
stood up in his stirrups to obtain a better view of the 
inn ; then, having seen all he wanted, he drove the spurs 
into his horse, who, as if the desire to do his rider’s 
bidding had made him incapable of fatigue, plunged 
down into the little valley as the vessel plunges into the 
trough of the sea after rising to the crest of a wave. 

The scant attention that the traveller paid to the road 
along which he was riding, and his evident eagerness to 
reach the inn, probably produced two results. 

The first was that he did not notice — lying in ambush 
as they were in the underbrush on both sides of the road, 
for a space of a quarter of a league or more, like hunters 
beating a preserve — a half-score of men flat on the 
ground and taking great pains to keep alight the matches 
of their carbines, which also lay on the ground, close be- 
side them. At the sound of the horse’s hoofs, these 


14 


THE BRIGAND. 


invisible men raised their heads, supported themselves on 
the left arm and knee, took their smoking carbines in the 
right hand, and mechanically carried the weapons to 
their shoulders. 

The second result produced was that, when they saw 
the rapidity with which the horse and rider passed, the 
men in ambush said to one another in whispers that the 
horseman, being in all probability expected at the inn, 
was certain to dismount there, and that it was useless, 
therefore, to make a great uproar on the highway, which 
might frighten off some considerable convoy likely to 
afford more bounteous plunder than they could obtain 
from a single traveller, however rich and magnificent he 
might be. 

These prostrate men were none other than the pur- 
veyors for the roadside graves, upon which, like good 
Christians, they erected crosses, after having interred 
the travellers who were imprudent enough to try, at the 
risk of their lives, to defend their purses, when the ex- 
cellent brigands saluted them, carbine in hand, with the 
sacramental phrase which is almost the same in all 
tongues and among all peoples: “Your money or your 
life ! ” 

It was to this danger probably, of which she was not 
unaware, that the young spinner alluded, when, as she 
watched the handsome traveller pass, she let fall the 
words, accompanied by a sigh, — 

“ It ’s a pity!” 

But, as we have seen, the men in ambush, for one 
reason or another, had given no sign of their presence. 
But, just as hunters who are beating a wood, to whom 
we have compared them, rise from their posts when the 
game has passed, so some of them, first putting out their 
heads, then their whole bodies, came forth from the 


THE COURIEK OF LOVE. 


15 


woods behind the traveller and walked toward the inn, 
the horse and his rider having meanwhile galloped hastily 
into the courtyard. 

A mozuelo was standing in the yard ready to take the 
horse’s rein. 

“ A measure of barley for my horse ! a glass of Xeres 
for myself ! a dinner, the best you can provide, for them 
who follow me! ” 

As the traveller finished this apostrophe, the host ap- 
peared at his window and the men from the underbrush 
at the gate. 

They exchanged a meaning glance which signified, on 
the part of the men from the woods, “ So we did well 
not to stop him ? ” and, on the part of the host, “ You 
could n’t have done better ! ” 

As the guest, being busily occupied in brushing off the 
dust that covered his cloak and boots, had seen nothing 
of this double glance, the host said to him : — 

“ Walk in, my gentleman ! Although in the heart of 
the mountains, the posada of the Moorish King is well 
provided, thank God! We have every sort of game in 
the larder except the hare, which is an unclean beast: 
we have an olla-podrida on the fire, a gazpacho that 
has been soaking since yesterday ; and, if you choose to 
wait, one of our friends, a great hunter of that sort of 
animals, is on the track of a bear that came down from 
the mountain to eat my barley; we shall soon have fresh 
bear’s meat to offer you.” 

“We have n’t time to wait for the return of your 
hunter, though the suggestion is most alluring.” 

“ Then I will do my best, my gentleman. ” 

“ Good ; and although I am sure that the senora whose 
courier I have constituted myself is a veritable goddess, 
who lives by inhaling the perfume of flowers and drink- 


16 


THE BRIGAND. 


ing the morning dew, nevertheless prepare the best you 
have, and tell me in which room you intend to receive 
her.” 

The host opened a door and showed his guest a large 
room with whitewashed walls, white curtains at the 
windows, and oaken tables. 

“ In this room,” he said. 

“ ’T is well ! ” replied the traveller; “ pour me a glass 
of Xeres, see if my horse has his measure of barley, and 
cull me a bouquet of the loveliest flowers in your garden.” 

“ It shall be done, ” said the host. “ How many 
covers 1 ” 

“ Two: one for the father, one for the daughter. The 
servants will eat in the kitchen after serving their mas- 
ters; spare not the Val de Penas.” 

“ Have no fear, my good sir; when one talks as you 
talk, he is sure to be well and promptly served.” 

And the host, presumably to prove his assertion, left 
the room, shouting, — 

“ Hola, Gil, two covers ! Has the horse his barley, 
Perez? Amapola, run to the garden and cut all the 
flowers you can find! ” 

“ Very good! ” murmured the traveller, with a smile of 
satisfaction; “ now it is my turn.” 

Thereupon, detaching from the chain about his neck a 
little golden ball about as large as a pigeon’s egg, of 
carved openwork, he opened it, placed it on the table, 
went to the kitchen for a hot coal, placed it in the golden 
box, and scattered on the coal a pinch of powder, the 
fumes of which spread at once through the room, exhal- 
ing the sweet, penetrating odor that caresses one’s sense 
of smell as soon as one enters an Arabian woman’s 
chamber. 

At that moment the host reappeared, holding in one 


THE COURIER OF LOVE. 


17 


hand a plate on which was a glass of Xeres, and in the 
other a freshly opened bottle; behind him came Gil 
with a table-cloth, napkins, and a pile of plates; lastly, 
behind Gil, was Amapola, concealed behind an armful of 
the brilliant-colored flowers which have no equivalent 
in French horticulture, but are so common in Andalusia 
that I have been unable even to learn their names. 

“ Make a bouquet of the best flowers, my girl, ” said 
the cavalier, “ and give me the others.” 

Amapola selected the flnest specimens, and asked 
when the bouquet was completed, — 

“Will that do?” 

“ Perfectly,” said the traveller; “now tie it.” 

The young girl looked about for a piece of string or 
thread. 

But the traveller took from his pocket a gold and pur- 
ple ribbon with which he had apparently provided him- 
self for the purpose, and cut off a piece of it with his 
dagger. 

Then he gave the ribbon to Amapola, who tied the 
bouquet, and, in accordance with the young man’s or- 
ders, placed it on one of the two plates which Gil had 
placed on the principal table. 

He then set about scattering the other flowers on the 
floor with his own hands, in such way as to make a 
flower-strewn path from the courtyard door to the table, 
like the path prepared for the Blessed Sacrament on 
Corpus Christi Day. 

After which he called the host and said, — 

“ My friend, here is a gold philip for the trouble I 
have caused you.” 

The host bowed. 

“ Now, ” continued the young gentleman, “ if Don 
Inigo Yelasco de Haro asks you who ordered his dinner, 
2 


18 


THE BRIGAND. 


you will say that it was a man whose name you do not 
know. If Dona Flor asks you who strewed these flowers 
for her, who prepared this bouquet, who burned these 
essences, you will reply that it was her love courier, 
Don Ramiro d’Avila.” 

And, leaping lightly upon his beautiful horse, whose 
bit the mozuelo held, he darted from the courtyard of 
the inn and continued his journey at a gallop toward 
Granada. 


DON INIGO VELASCO DE HARO. 


19 


III. 

DON INIGO VELASCO DE HARO. 

From the position she occupied, at the bottom of one of 
the hollows we have described, the lovely maiden with 
the goat was unable to see the young horseman enter the 
inn or leave it; hut she seemed to listen attentively for 
any sound that might indicate what was taking place 
there , and several times she raised her • beautiful eyes 
questioiiingly, as if- astonished that the passage of the 
rich and well-favored youth was followed by no extra- 
ordinary occurrence. 

The fact was that, not having left her place, and not 
having heard the dialogue between the traveller and the 
innkeeper, she naturally knew nothing of the wholly 
selfish considerations on the part of the frequenters of 
the inn to which the fair Dona Flor’s love courier was 
indebted for his escape, safe and sound, from their hands. 

Meanwhile, and just as Don Kamiro d’ Avila, having 
taken all necessary steps to make sure that the inn of the 
Moorish King should be worthy to receive Don Inigo 
Velasco and his daughter, galloped out of the courtyard 
and rode on toward Granada, the vanguard of the caravan 
heralded by the gallant quartermaster began to become 
visible to the gypsy’s eyes. 

The caravan in question was divided into three distinct 
parts. 

The first — which served as a vanguard and, as we 
have said, was just coming in sight on the western slope 
of the little mountain — consisted of a single man, belong- 


20 


THE BEIGAND. 


ing to the domestic household of Don Inigo de Velasco; 
but, like the camxneri in Sicily, who are servants in 
times of peace and become soldiers in the hour of peril, 
this man was dressed in a half-military, half-livery cos- 
tume, carried a long shield at his side, and held straight 
in the air, like a lance, with the butt resting on his knee, 
an arquebus whose lighted match left no question as to 
the purpose of the party to defend itself in case it should 
be attacked. 

The main army, which marched about thirty paces 
behind the vanguard, consisted of an old man of sixty to 
sixty-five years and a girl of sixteen to eighteen. 

Lastly, behind them, at the same distance as the man 
who did duty as a scout, came the rearguard, composed 
of two servants, with shields at their sides and smoking 
arquebuses on their knees. 

In all, two masters and three servants. 

As the servants are destined to play an unimportant 
part in this narrative, whereas, on the other hand, their 
master and mistress are to fill the leading roles, we may 
be permitted to pass over Messieurs Nunez, Camacho, 
and Torribio, in order to devote our special attention to 
Don Inigo Velasco de Haro and Dona Flor, his daughter. 

Don Inigo Velasco was, as we have said, an old man 
of some sixty to sixty-five years, although the appellation 
“ old man ” is hardly appropriate perhaps for one who, 
although he may be beyond middle age, is still young in 
body. 

As a matter of fact, his beard, just beginning to turn 
gray ; his hair, which he wore quite long after the fashion 
of Philip the Fair and Ferdinand the Catholic, and which 
was hardly touched with the winter’s snow, — denoted a 
man of from fifty years to fifty-five, at most. 

And yet he had the disadvantage, shared by all those 


DON INIGO VELASCO DE HARO. 


21 


who have had an illustrious youth, of being unable to 
conceal his age, because he had, more than once, and at 
different periods, left a deej) mark on the history of his 
country. At thirty years of age, Don Inigo Velasco, 
inheritor of one of the most illustrious names and heir of 
one of the richest families in Castile, with a thirst for 
adventure due to the love aroused in his heart by a young 
woman whom he could not marry, — inasmuch as the 
father of Dona Mercedes de Mendo (such was the name 
of that queen of beauty) was his father’s enemy, the two 
having sworn eternal hatred to each other, — at thirty 
years of age, we say, Don Inigo Velasco, who had had 
for his governor Pere Marchena, one of the first priests 
who, at the risk of assuming an attitude of opposition to 
the Holy Scriptures, had been convinced, by the demon- 
stration of Christopher Columbus, that the world was 
probably round, — Don Inigo Velasco had, from despair 
rather than from conviction, adopted the theories and 
supported the demands of the Genoese navigator. 

We know what that poor man of genius, whom the 
least ill-disposed advisers of Ferdinand and Isabella 
treated as a visionary and a madman, had to endure at 
the court of the Catholic monarchs, when, after he had 
unavailingly set forth at Genoa, his native country, the 
plan he had conceived of reaching the Empire of Cathay, 
mentioned by his predecessor, Marco Polo, by sailing 
west; when, after being repulsed by King John II., 
who treacherously and secretly sent a man to attempt 
that expedition which he characterized in public as fool- 
hardy, he appeared before Ferdinand, King of Arragon, 
and Isabella, Queen of Castile, offering to endow Spain, 
not with a city, not with a province, not with a kingdom, 
but with a world! 

Eight years passed in fruitless manoeuvring and petitions. 


22 


THE BRIGAND. 


Luckily for the illustrious Genoese — we have already 
philosophized more than once upon this text so rich in 
small causes and great results — luckily for the illustrious 
Genoese, we say, Providence decreed that, at the moment 
when Christopher Columbus wished to start upon his 
voyage, at the moment when the Empire of the Caliphs 
in Spain fell with the fall of its last rampart, the nephew 
of one of the queen’s dearest friends fell madly in love 
with a girl whom he had no hope of marrying. 

We humbly ask love’s pardon for ranking it among 
small causes. 

But, small or great, the cause produced a great result. 

We have mentioned the cause; now let us tell the 
result. 

The nephew’s name we already know; he was Don 
Inigo Velasco de Haro. 

The aunt was Beatrice, Marchioness of Moya. 

How, Queen Isabella had no dearer friend, no closer 
confidante, than the Marchioness of Moya. We mention 
that fact by way of memorandum ; we shall recur to it 
anon. 

As for Velasco, he had determined to have done with 
life ; and, if he had not been killed ten times over, it was 
only because death had recoiled before him, as before all 
resolute hearts. In the wars the Catholic kings had 
waged against the Moors, he had constantly fought in the 
front rank: he was at the assault on the fortresses of Illora 
and Moclin, those two strongholds of the queen city, 
esteemed of such importance that they were called the 
eyes of Granada; he was at the siege of Velez when 
Abdallah attempted to raise the siege and was repulsed 
with terrible loss; he was at the capture of Gibalfaro, 
when Ibrahim’s city was stormed and given over to pil- 
lage; and he was under the walls of Boabdil’s capital 


DON INIGO VELASCO DE HARO. 


23 


when, after they had, as the Spanish said, eaten the pome- 
granate {granada) grain by grain, — that is to say, con- 
quered the kingdom town by town, — the Catholic kings 
surrounded the city they were blockading with a new city, 
with houses, churches, and ramparts, and called it Santa 
Fe, in token of their hopes and of the vow they had 
made not to abandon the siege of Granada until Granada 
had surrendered. 

Granada surrendered November 25, 1491, the year 
897 of the Hegira, the 22d day of the moon of Moharrem. 

To Columbus, who had been waiting eight years, it 
seemed the proper moment to return to the charge ; King 
Ferdinand and Queen Isabella had finished the work 
begun by Pelagius seven centuries before : they had 
driven the infidels from Spain. 

Columbus urged his expedition, proposing as its princi- 
pal object the conversion of the infidels of a new world. 

To accomplish that object he asked for two caravels, a 
hundred men to man them, and three thousand crowns. 

Lastly, in addition to the religious purpose, he sug- 
gested as a possible material result inexhaustible placers 
of gold and mines of priceless diamonds. What, then, 
could prevent th-e greedy Ferdinand and the pious Isa- 
bella from undertaking an enterprise which, both from a 
temporal and spiritual standpoint, offered every promise 
of a lucky speculation, the existence of this unknown 
world being admitted? 

We will proceed to tell what it was that prevented 
them. 

Christopher Columbus, placing the reward upon the 
level of the service to be performed, demanded the rank 
of admiral of the Spanish fleets, the title of viceroy of all 
the countries he might discover, the tenth part of the 
profits to be derived from the expedition, and that his 


24 


THE BRIGAND. 


heirs male should inherit the titles and honors to be 
accorded him. 

These demands seemed the more exorbitant in that 
Columbus — although he claimed descent from one of 
the most illustrious families of Plaisance, and although 
he wrote Queen Isabella that, if she should make him an 
admiral, he would not be the first admiral in his family 
— Columbus, we say, had failed to produce proofs of his 
noble birth, and it was a common rumor at court that he 
was simply the son of a poor weaver of Cogoreo or Nervi. 

His demands therefore had roused the indignation of 
Ferdinand de Talavera, Archbishop of Granada, to whom 
Their Catholic Majesties had submitted the project of the 
“ Genoese pilot, ” as Christopher Columbus was generally 
called at court. 

That tenth part of the profits, representing just the 
tax that the Church collected under the name of “ tithes, ” 
was the thing that especially wounded the religious sus- 
ceptibilities of Don Ferdinand de Talavera. 

Poor Columbus was extremely unlucky, for his other 
three demands — to be raised to the rank of admiral, to 
be made viceroy, and to have that title made hereditary, 
as in a royal or princely family — had wounded the pride 
of Ferdinand and Isabella, sovereigns at that epoch not 
being accustomed to treat a private individual as their 
equal, and Columbus, poor and obscure as he was, speak- 
ing with as much pride as if he already wore upon his 
head the golden crown of Guacanagari or Montezuma. 

The result was that after an animated discussion in the 
council, where Columbus had but two partisans, Don 
Luis de Saint- Angel, collector of the ecclesiastical revenues 
of Arragon, and Don Alonzo de Quintanilla, director of 
the finances of Castile, the proposition was definitively 
rejected, to the great satisfaction of King Ferdinand, the 


DON INIGO VELASCO DE HARO. 25 

man of doubt and of material mind, and to the great grief 
of Isabella, the woman of poesy and faith. 

As for Columbus’s enemies — and they were numerous 
at court — they looked upon the decision as irrevocable, 
and firmly believed that they were rid forever of the 
absurd dreamer who made all services theretofore ren- 
dered seem of little account beside the services he prom- 
ised to render. 

But they had reckoned without Don Inigo Velasco, 
Count of Haro, and without his aunt Beatrice, Mar- 
chioness of Moya. 

On the day following that on which the refusal of 
Their Catholic Majesties was transmitted to Columbus by 
the Archbishop Don Ferdinand de Talavera, — a refusal 
of which Don Luis de Saint-Angel and Don Alonzo de 
Quintanilla had tried to lessen the force, but which had 
none the less left the poor navigator without hope, — 
Dona Beatrice entered the queen’s oratory, and, in a 
voice betraying deep emotion, requested an audience for 
her nephew. 

Isabella, amazed at her friend’s almost embarrassed 
manner, gazed at her for a moment; then, in the gentle 
tone that was habitual with her when she was talking 
with her chosen friends, she asked, — 

“ What do you say , my child 1 ” 

“ My child ” was an affectionate title which the Queen 
of Castile ordinarily bestowed, but not too lavishly, upon 
her particular friends. 

“ I say that my nephew, Don Inigo de Velasco, has 
the honor of soliciting Your Highness for an audience of 
leave-taking. ” 

“ Don Inigo Velasco ? ” repeated Isabella, evidently 
trying to recall the person in question to her mind; “is 
not he the young captain who so distinguished himself 


26 


THE BRIGAND. 


during our last war, at the assaults upon Illora and 
Moclin, at the siege of Velez, at the capture of Gibalfaro, 
and on many other occasions ? ” 

“That is he!” cried Dona Beatrice, overjoyed and 
proud that her nephew’s name had awakened such memo- 
ries in the queen’s heart; “yes, yes. Your Highness, 
that is he ! ” 

“ And you say that he is going away ? ” said Isabella. 

“ Yes, Your Highness.” 

“ For a long journey 1 ” 

“ I fear so.” 

“Will he leave Spain?” 

“ I think so.” 

“ Oho 1 ” 

“ He gives as his excuse that there is no longer any- 
thing for him to do for Your Majesty’s service here.” 

“ And where is he going ? ” 

“ I venture to hope, ” replied Dona Beatrice, “ that the 
queen will deign to permit him to answer for himself 
upon that point.” 

“ ’T is well, my child; tell him that he may enter.” 

And while the Marchioness of Moya, preparing to act 
as her nephew’s introductress, walked toward the door. 
Queen Isabella seated herself, and, rather to keep herself 
in countenance than to do any real work, she took up a 
banner she was embroidering in honor of the Virgin, to 
whose intercession she attributed the fortunate surrender 
of Granada, which took place, as is well known, by 
capitulation and without bloodshed. 

A moment later the door reopened; the young man 
entered under the escort of Dona Beatrice, and halted 
respectfully, hat in hand, a few steps from Isabella. 


FEEDINAND AND ISABELLA. 


27 


IV. 

FERDINAND AND ISABELLA. 

Don Inigo Velasco — whom we have just intro- 
duced to our readers as a magnificent old man of some 
sixty or sixty-five years — was, at the time of the fall 
of Granada, a handsome young man of thirty to thirty- 
two, with great eyes and long black hair; his pale face 
was strongly marked with the tinge of melancholy that 
indicates an unhappy love-affair, and consequently is 
always a powerful recommendation to a woman, even 
though the woman he a queen. 

A wound, then scarcely healed, but whose scar had 
since vanished from sight in the first wrinkles of old 
age, made a red furrow across his brow, and bore wit- 
ness that he had fought the Moors at close quarters and 
face to face, for a scimetar had left that ghastly mark. 

The queen, who had often heard him spoken of as a 
gallant knight in love and a doughty captain in war, 
but who then saw him for the first time, gazed at Don 
Inigo with the twofold interest attaching to him, first, 
as the nephew of her best friend, and secondly, as a 
cavalier who had fought so valiantly for the cause of 
his God and his kings. 

“You are Don Inigo Velasco ? ” demanded Isabella, 
after a moment of observation, during which profound 
silence reigned in the oratory, although a dozen or more 
persons were present, seated or standing, near her or at 


28 


THE BRIGAND. 


a distance, according to the degree of familiarity with 
which they were honored or the rank they held. 

“ Yes, Yonr Highness,” Hon Inigo replied. 

“ I thought that you were a rico homhre,” 

“ And so I am. Your Highness.” 

“ Why, then, do you not remain covered in our 
presence ? ” 

“ Because my respect for the woman forbids me to 
exercise the privilege of which the queen deigns to 
remind me.” 

Isabella smiled and continued, using the familiar form 
of address which the kings and queens of Castile are 
even now accustomed to use with those who in our day 
are called “ grandees of Spain,” and who were then called 
ricos homhres^ — 

“And so, Don Inigo, you propose to travel, my 
child % ” 

“ Yes, Your Highness,” the young man replied. 

“ Why so ? ” 

Don Inigo was silent. 

“ It seems to me,” continued Isabella, “ that there are 
numerous places at my court well suited to a young man 
of your years and a conqueror of your merit.” 

“Your Highness is mistaken in regard to my age,” 
replied Don Inigo, shaking his head sadly; “ I am old, 
madame. ” 

“ Old 1 ” exclaimed the queen, in amazement. 

“Yes, madame; for one is old, whatever his real age, 
on the day when he loses his last illusion ; and , as to 
the title of conqueror you are graciously pleased to 
bestow upon me, as upon another Cid, I should soon 
lose it, for, thanks to the fall of Granada and the last 
Moorish king, Abu- Abdallah, you have no more enemies 
to conquer within your kingdom.” 


FEKDINAND AND ISABELLA. 


29 


The young man uttered these words in a tone of such 
profound sadness that the queen looked at him in 
amazement, and Dona Beatrice, who, doubtless, was 
aware of her nephew’s disappointment in love, wiped 
away a tear that rolled silently down her cheek. 

“ Where do you intend to go 1 ” the queen asked. 

“ I intend to go to France, Your Highness.” 

Isabella frowned slightly. 

“ Pray, has King Charles VIII.,” she asked, reverting 
to the more formal mode of address, “ invited you to his 
nuptials with the heiress of Bretagne, or has he offered 
you a commission in the army he is raising, so it is 
said, for the conquest of Italy?” 

“I do not know King Charles VIII., madame,” Don 
Inigo replied; “ and I should refuse any offer that he 
might make me to serve in his armies, for that would 
certainly involve serving against my beloved queen.” 

“ Why are you going to France , if not in search of a 
master who will suit you better than we ? ” 

“ I am accompanying thither a friend whom you have 
driven hence.” 

“ Who is this friend ? ” 

"Christopher Columbus, madame.” 

There was a moment’s silence, during which there 
was a barely audible sound, caused by the partial open- 
ing of the door of the king’s cabinet. 

“We have not driven your friend away, Don Inigo, 
God forbid! ” rejoined Isabella, with a sadness that she 
could not control ; “ but our council has declared that 
the conditions imposed by the Genoese are so exorbitant 
that it is impossible for us to accept them without fail- 
ing in what we owe to ourselves and our two crowns. 
If your friend would have consented to make some con- 
cession, Don Inigo, King Ferdinand’s good-will, and 


30 


THE BRIGAND. 


the interest which I myself took in it, would have 
rendered easy the execution of a project whose ill-success 
he owes to himself alone.” 

Isabella paused, awaiting Don Inigo’s reply; but Don 
Inigo did not reply. 

“ Moreover,” she continued, “ to say nothing of the 
fact that the theory of the Genoese accords hut ill with 
the text of the Holy Scriptures, you know that the 
greatest scholars in the kingdom look upon Christopher 
Columbus as a visionary.” 

“ It is not like a visionary. Your Highness,” replied 
Dona Beatrice’s nephew, “ to renounce his hopes rather 
than his dignity. Columbus is treating for an empire 
ten times greater, so he claims, than Spain, and his 
demands rise to the level of their subject. I can 
understand that.” 

“Nephew! ” murmured Dona Beatrice. 

“ Can it he that I have unwittingly failed in respect 
to the queen ? ” asked Don Inigo. “ I should regret it 
most profoundly.” 

“ No, my child, no! ” said Isabella, hastily. 

Then, after a moment’s reflection, she continued, — 

“ So you think that there is something serious, pos- 
sible, real, behind this pilot’s dreams'? ” 

“ I am too ignorant to answer Your Highness in the 
name of science, madame,” said Don Inigo; “ but I will 
answer in the name of faith: Columbus’s deep convic- 
tion has convinced me, and just as Your Highness made 
a vow not to leave Santa Fe until you had taken Granada, 
so I have made a vow not to leave Columbus until he 
has set foot on the soil of this unknown world which he 
desired to present to Your Highness and which Your 
Highness has refused.” 

“But,” said Isabella, affecting to treat the matter 


FERDINAND AND ISABELLA. 


31 


lightly, although the young man’s grave words deprived 
her of the power, if not of the will to do so, — “but 
since you have such unbounded faith in the learning of 
the Genoese, and he needs only two caravels, a hundred 
sailors, and three thousand crowns to carry out his enter- 
prise, why have you not built the two caravels, hired 
the hundred sailors, and advanced the three thousand 
crowns from your own fortune, which amounts to three 
times as much as your friend requires? Under those 
circumstances, owing nothing to anybody, Columbus 
might have made himself king and you vice-king of his 
imaginary kingdom.” 

“ I offered to do it. Your Highness,” said Don Inigo, 
gravely, “ not in the hope of so eminent a reward, for I 
am not ambitious; but Columbus declined my offer.” 

“ Columbus declined the means of realizing a project 
which he has been following for twenty years, when 
those means were offered him?” cried Isabella. “ Ah, 
no, no, you cannot make me believe that, my child! ” 

“It is the truth, none the less. Your Highness,” 
replied Don Inigo, bowing with respect. 

“ And what reason did he give for declining ? ” 

“ He said that he must have the name and patronage 
of a great king to consecrate such an undertaking, and 
that, since he was not permitted to attempt it under the 
flag of Portugal or Spain, he would see if Charles VIII. 
would not take it under the protection of the three 
fleurs-de-lis of France.” 

“ The Genoese has gone to France? The Genoese has 
gone to lay his project before Charles VIII.? Are you 
sure of that, Senor Don Inigo?” demanded 'Ferdinand 
of Arragon, suddenly making his appearance and taking 
part in the conversation, to which he had already been 
listening for some minutes. 


32 


THE BEIGAND. 


At his unexpected entrance, every one turned with a 
slight exclamation, or at least a gesture of surprise. 

Don Inigo alone, as if he had heard the noise made 
by the door and had guessed who opened it, manifested 
nothing hut respect, bowing before the king as he had 
previously done before the queen. 

But, in order, doubtless, to assert his privilege of 
remaining covered before the King of Arragon, he 
replaced his hat upon his head, removing it again al- 
most immediately as he turned once more to Isabella, 
from whom, as his onl}'’ sovereign, he seemed to await 
his dismissal. 

But she was trembling with delight to see with what 
heat Ferdinand, ordinarily so calm, received the humili- 
ating intelligence that Columbus had gone to invoke 
the protection of another monarch. 

And as Don Inigo made no reply to King Ferdinand’s 
question, — 

“ Do you hear what the King of Arragon asks you ? ” 
she said to the young man ; “ he asks you if it is cer- 
tainly true that the Genoese has started for France, and 
if he has, in good faith, gone to offer his services to 
King Charles VIII.” 

“I left Columbus this morning at the Bara gate, 
madame; he was to go along the coast in the hope of 
finding at Alicante, Valencia, or Barcelona some means 
of transport by sea to Provence.” 

“ And then ? ” said Ferdinand. 

“ Then, sire,” replied Don Inigo, “ I came to ask the 
queen’s permission to accompany that great man; to set 
sail with him and to share his fortunes, good or bad.” 

“ You propose, then, to join him? ” 

“As soon as I shall have received my gracious sover- 
eign’s permission,” replied Don Inigo. 


FERDINAND AND ISABELLA. 33 

“ Doubtless he takes his departure crushed by the ill- 
success of the solicitations he addressed to us 1 ” 

“ He takes his departure with head erect and tranquil 
features, Your Highness; for, although regret and dis- 
appointment weigh upon his heart, his heart offers a 
foundation broad enough to support the double burden ! ” 

Ferdinand remained silent for a moment in face of 
that haughty response; then, passing his hand across 
his brow, now lined with thought, he murmured with 
a sigh, — 

“ I fear that my councillors were too hasty in re- 
jecting this man's propositions. What do you say, 
madame ? ” 

But, at the first words the king uttered, Isabella had 
risen. 

“ Oh, monsefior,” she said, walking quickly to his 
side, with clasped hands, “I bowed to the decision of 
the council because I thought that that decision ema- 
nated from you; but, if I was mistaken, if you still 
retain some sympathy for the man who inspires such 
devotion, who arouses such enthusiasm, — why, we 
must take counsel only of you, your genius, and your 
grandeur ! ” 

“ Do you think, Don Inigo,” asked Ferdinand, in a 
voice that made every word fall upon Isabella's heart 
like a drop of iced water, — " do you think that Colum- 
bus, even assuming that he discovers Cathay and the 
kingdom of Cipango, will find in that new world spices, 
aromatic plants, precious stones and gold in sufficient 
quantity to cover the enormous outlay such an expedition 
necessitates ? ” 

Isabella felt the perspiration standing upon her fore- 
head; she felt what all poetic hearts feel when a person 
who is entitled to their love or their respect forgets for 

3 


34 


THE BRIGAND. 


a moment to speak in language corresponding with his 
exalted rank and lofty station. 

She had not the courage to reply. Don Inigo replied 
for her. 

“ Does Your Highness call the expense of fitting out 
two caravels with crews amounting to a hundred men, 
enormous? As for the three thousand crowns, that is a 
sum which some gentlemen in Your Highness’s service 
have spent more than once in a single night of gaming 
or dissipation.” 

“ And furthermore,” Isabella made haste to add, “ if 
the necessary money for the expedition is the only 
obstacle, I will furnish that myself.” 

“ You ! how so ? ” demanded Ferdinand. 

“ Why, from the chest of the treasurer of Castile, I 
trust,” was Isabella’s reply; “and, if it does not con- 
tain even that trifling sum, I shall be quite prepared to 
pawn or sell my own jewels rather than see Columbus 
carry to another king and another nation a project which, 
if it succeeds, will make the kingdom that has taken 
Columbus under its protection the richest and most 
powerful kingdom in the world ! ” 

Ferdinand gave vent to a murmur which expressed 
neither approbation nor disapprobation ; the Marchioness 
of Moya uttered an admiring exclamation; Don Inigo 
bent his knee before the queen. 

“What are you doing, Don Inigo? ” queried Isabella, 
with a smile. 

“ I am adoring my sovereign as she deserves to be 
adored,” said the young man, “and I am waiting for 
her to bid me go and stop Christopher Columbus and 
bring him back to Santa Fe. ” 

Isabella cast an imploring glance at the King of 
Arragon. 


FERDINAND AND ISABELLA. 


35 


But the cold, shrewd politician was not the man to 
allow himself to be carried away, without due reflection, 
by the outbursts of enthusiasm in which he grudgingly 
permitted women and young men to indulge, and which, 
in his view, should always be kept at a respectful dis- 
tance from the minds of ministers and the hearts of 
kings. 

“ Tell this young man to rise, madame,” he said, 
** and do you come with me and discuss this important 
affair.” 

Isabella went to the king and took his arm ; they did 
not leave the oratory , hut withdrew to the embrasure of 
a stained-glass window representing the triumph of the 
Virgin. 

The young man extended both hands toward the 
image of the Madonna. 

“0 blessed Mother of God,” he said, “send down 
into the king’s heart the divine light that crowns thy 
brow!” 

Doubtless Don Inigo’s prayer was heard; for he saw 
Ferdinand’s icy mask gradually melt before Isabella’s 
urgent entreaties; he bent his head as if in assent, and 
said, raising his voice, — 

“ Very good; let it be as our dear Isabella wishes! ” 

Every breast, relieved from the pressure of suspense, 
dilated in a sigh of satisfaction. 

“To horse, young man,” continued Don Ferdinand, 
“ and go and tell the obstinate Genoese that kings must 
needs yield, since he will not.” 

“And so, madame — ? ” said Don Inigo, desiring to 
have the queen’s approbation as well as the king’s. 

“We agree to everything,” said Isabella, “and your 
friend Columbus may return without fear of being con- 
fronted with fresh difficulties. ” 


36 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ Oh, can it be true, madarae; have I heard aright? ” 
cried Don Inigo. 

“ Here is my hand, ” said Isabella. 

The young man hastily seized that royal hand and 
respectfully touched it with his lips; then he rushed 
from the room, crying, — 

“ My horse ! my horse ! ” 

Five minutes later the pavement of the courtyard 
rang beneath the galloping feet of Don Inigo’s horse, 
but the sound soon died away in the distance. 



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DONA FLOR. 


37 


V. 


DONA FLOR. 

Don Inigo overtook Columbus within ten leagues of 
Santa Fe, and took him back to the court of Their 
Catholic Majesties. 

The Genoese’s mind was overflowing with irritation 
and suspicion, but the good news Don Inigo had brought 
him, which he refused to believe, was speedily confirmed 
by the king and queen with their own mouths. 

Thereupon he received all necessary orders, and set out 
for the seaport of Palos de Moguer, — a village situated 
at the mouth of the Tinto, near the city of Huelva. 

The motive that led Ferdinand to select that port was 
not, as one might suppose, the fact that it was upon the 
Atlantic coast, and therefore shortened the voyage, but 
that the village of Palos, aj^ tho result of a judicial decree 
lately pronounced against it, was required to furnish the 
king with two fully equipped caravels. 

Thus Ferdinand had no other outlay to incur than the 
three thousand crowns. Let us be just, however, and 
state that, early in June, Columbus was informed that, 
at the request of Isabella, his declared patroness, a third 
vessel had been granted him. 

It is true that Ferdinand had learned that Henry VII. 
of England, yielding to the persistent applications of 
Bartholomew Columbus, brother to the famous navi- 
gator, had offered him all the inducements that had 
been granted him in Spain. 


38 


THE BKIGAND. 


As for Don Inigo, after accompanying his friend to 
Palos he returned to Cordova, in pursuance of a letter 
he had received by special courier, making Columbus 
promise that he would not leave Spain without him, 
and that he would send word to him at Cordova of the 
precise day fixed for his departure. 

Columbus owed too much to that faithful friend not 
to make the required promise. In the course of the 
month of July, 1492, he sent word to Don Inigo that 
he should sail on August 3. 

On the 2d of August the young man arrived, more 
depressed, hut more determined than ever. 

Don Inigo accompanied his friend Columbus through 
all the perils of that first voyage. He was on deck 
during the night of October 11 and 12, when the look- 
out on the “Pinta” cried, “Land ho!” He was the 
second man to land on the island of San Salvador, in 
the midst of the astonished natives, who gazed in silence 
at those strangers arriving from an unknown world: 
the first was Columbus, who had reserved for himself 
the honor of planting the standard of Castile on the 
land he had discovered. He went with him to Cuba 
and Santo Domingo; returned with him to Spain in 
March, 1493; set sail with him again in September of 
the same year, the instances of his aunt as well as those 
of Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand being powerless 
to keep him at court; visited in his company the Lesser 
Antilles, Dominica, Guadeloupe, St. Christopher, and 
the Windward Islands. He fought with him against 
the caciques, and against Columbus’s rebellious com- 
panions, and set sail with him a second time when the 
accusations of his enemies compelled the illustrious 
Genoese to leave his viceroyalty in order to return and 
justify himself before those whom he had made the 


DONA FLOR. 


39 


richest princes in the world. At last, on May 30, 1498, 
he set out with Columbus on a third voyage; but that 
time he did not return to Spain with him. On the 
other side of the ocean he learned of the disgrace of 
Columbus and his brother Bartholomew, their imprison- 
ment, and finally their death. 

In Spain, those persons who still remembered that 
there existed somewhere in the world a certain Don 
Inigo Velasco, learned about 1504 or 1505 that he had 
penetrated into the interior and had been received at 
the court of a cacique, whose daughter he had married, 
and that the cacique had given her for her dowry all the 
gold that the nuptial chamber would hold; then that 
the father-in-law had died, and that Inigo had declined 
the crown, which the people of the country had wished 
him to assume; finally, that his wife too had died, leav- 
ing a daughter so lovely that he could think of no other 
appropriate name for her than that of Dona Dior. 

Now, some three years before the epoch at which our 
narrative opens, a short time after the death of that 
King Ferdinand who had rewarded Columbus by im- 
prisonment and destitution for the gift he had made 
him, the report suddenly became current that Don Inigo 
Velasco had arrived at Malaga with his daughter, upon 
a vessel ballasted with gold ingots. But Queen Isabella 
was dead; Dona Beatrice was dead; there was no one 
left who was interested in Don Inigo, as there was no 
one in whom he was interested. A single one of his 
friends, Don Euiz de Torrillas, came to Malaga to see 
him. Twenty-five or twenty-six years before, they had 
served together against the Moors and had taken part 
together in the capture of that same city of IMalaga, 
where they now met once more. Don Buiz lived at 
Granada; he urged Don Inigo to come and make his 


40 


THE BRIGAND. 


home in the same city with him; hut all his instances 
were unavailing. 

But when, after Ferdinand’s death, Cardinal Ximenes, 
Archbishop of Toledo, was appointed regent, the two- 
fold reputation, for wealth and probity, that had accom- 
panied Don Inigo in his travels and had returned to 
Spain with him, led the cardinal, at that time eighty 
years of age, to request him to join him at Toledo, in 
order to assist him in affairs of state, and especially in 
the matter of the relations to he established by the new 
king, Don Carlos, between Spain and the West Indies. 

The welfare of the country was at stake; Don Inigo 
did not hesitate ; he left Malaga with his daughter, went 
to Toledo, and there, in respect to all matters per- 
taining to the Spanish dominions over sea, he shared 
the government with Cardinal Ximenes and Adrian of 
Utrecht, Don Carlos’s former tutor, whom he had sent 
to Spain in advance of his own coming. 

This three-headed regency governed Spain for about 
a year ; then suddenly it became known that Don Carlos 
had landed at Villa-Viciosa, a small seaport in the 
Asturias, and was on his way to the convent of Torde- 
sillas, where, since the death of his father, Philip the 
Fair, — which took place on Friday, September 25, 1506, 
— his mother, Joanna, had resided, known in Castilian 
legend by the name of “ Joanna the Mad.” 

When he heard that news, nothing would induce Don 
Inigo Velasco to remain at Toledo; and, giving as a 
pretext for his determination that Don Carlos’s arrival 
in Spain made a council of regency useless, he took 
leave of his two colleagues, notwithstanding their efforts 
to detain him, and returned with his daughter to his 
paradise at Malaga. 

He was living there in perfect tranquillity, believing 


DONA FLOR. 


41 


himself to be safely hidden from all eyes, when, early 
in June, 1519, a messenger from King Don Carlos 
made his appearance, announced that the king proposed 
to visit the cities in the south of Spain, Cordova, Seville, 
Granada, and invited him to wait upon him at the last- 
named place. 

The same messenger handed him a parchment, sealed 
with the royal seal, which proved to be nothing less 
than his appointment to the post of Grand Justiciary. 

That appointment, so Don Carlos wrote him with his 
own hand, was an act of homage rendered by Cardinal 
Ximenes on his death-bed, and by Adrian of Utrecht, 
not only to the enlightened mind of Don Inigo Velasco, 
but to that stern and lofty probity of which no one in 
Spain denied him the possession. 

Kegretting his Malaga paradise from the bottom of his 
heart, Don Inigo Velasco made his preparations for 
departure; and when the appointed day arrived, he set 
forth, taking Dona Flor with him, and preceded, 
although he did not suspect it, by Don Ramiro d’Avila, 
a passionate worshipper of the beautiful girl, who hoped, 
thanks to a few stray glances exchanged through the 
interstices of a blind, that he was not altogether 
indifferent to her. 

He was accompanied also by three servants, posted, 
as we have said, so that one served as scout and the 
other two as rearguard. 

Indeed, if common report was to be believed, that 
escort, and even one much more considerable, would not 
be useless ; the road was said to be infested by brigands 
in whom a new leader, daring to a degree hitherto 
unheard of even among those daring men, had inspired 
such insolent audacity within the past year that more 
than once the leader in question, attended by ten, twelve, 


42 


THE BRIGAND. 


or fifteen men, had made incursions, on one side of the 
mountains, as far as the gates of Malaga, and on the 
other side as far as the gates of Granada. 

Whence came this leader? Nobody knew. Who was 
he? Nobody could say. His family name and his 
Christian name were alike unknown; it had not even 
occurred to him to adopt a nom cle guerre^ as that 
sort of people often do. He was known simply as El 
Salteador; that is to say. The Brigand. 

All the tales that were told of this mysterious rover 
of the high-roads had, as we have seen, influenced in 
some degree the precautions taken by Hon Inigo; and 
when the little party became visible to the young gypsy, 
it had all the appearance of travellers in fear of attack 
and ready to defend themselves. 

Now the reader will perhaps wonder why, in view of 
the evil reports that were current concerning the road 
across the mountain; why, in view of his love for his 
dear Dona Blor, Don Inigo had taken that road rather 
than make a detour, and why, having taken it, he had 
not provided himself with a more numerous escort. 

To these questions we will reply that on two occasions, 
not long before that of which we are writing, Don Inigo 
and his daughter had crossed the same mountains with- 
out meeting with any accident; and, furthermore, it is 
an incontestable truth that man becomes accustomed to 
danger, and, by dint of being constantly exposed to it, 
becomes indifferent to it. 

How many perils of every description had Don Inigo 
defied in the course of his adventurous life! — perils of 
war against the Moors, perils of shipwreck in crossing 
the ocean, perils of mutiny on shipboard, perils of assas- 
sination amid the .savage natives of an unknown con- 
tinent! Compared with those, what were the perils to 


DONA FLOR. 


43 


be encountered in the heart of Spain, in that short space 
of barely twenty leagues that lay between Malaga and 
Granada 1 

At those perils, therefore, Don Inigo shrugged his 
shoulders. 

Nevertheless, it was most imprudent in him to ven- 
ture among such narrow defiles with a treasure of youth 
and beauty like that which rode at the grand justiciary’s 
right. 

The reputation for marvellous loveliness, which had 
preceded Dona Flor from the new world to the old, 
had exaggerated nothing. Dona Flor at sixteen — she 
had just reached that age — would have left far behind 
the most highflown comparisons that Spanish, or even 
Arabian poets could have conceived in her regard: in 
her were combined the brilliancy of the flower and the 
velvety softness of the fruit, the grace of the mortal and 
the dignity of the goddess; just as, in the young gypsy, 
who watched her draw nigh with an expression of artless 
admiration, one was conscious of the mingling of the 
Arab and the Spanish races, so, in Dona Flor, one could 
distinguish the type, not only of two magnificent races, 
but of all that was purest and noblest in those two races. 
The child of Mexico and of Spain had the lovely dead- 
white complexion, the ravishingly beautiful arms, the 
fascinating hands, the miraculous feet of the Andalusian, 
with the dark lashes, the velvet eyes, the long flowing 
hair, the flexible figure of the Indian, daughter of the 
sun. 

Her costume seemed to have been selected expressly 
to set off the lovely traveller’s magnificent outlines and 
enchanting face. It consisted of a dress of sky-blue 
silk, dotted with pink and silver, and buttoned from 
top to bottom with pearls, each of which was worthy a 


44 


THE BRIGAND. 


place in a countess’s coronet; the dress marked the 
outline of her bust, and the upper part of her arms, like 
the Spanish costumes of the beginning of the fourteenth 
century; hut the sleeves became fuller at the elbow, 
and fell away from the arms on each side of the body, 
leaving bare, except for waves of Murcia lace, the hands 
and forearms, which, having braved the sun of Mexico 
with impunity, could safely brave the sun of Spain, hut 
which had naught to fear from it for the moment, being 
concealed in an ample cape of white wool, as fine and 
soft as our modern cashmeres, and cut, as to the lower 
part, after the style of the Mexican cloak, and as to the 
hood, beneath which the girl’s face glowed jn a warm 
half-light, after the style of the Arabian burnous. 

Urging on their mules, who tossed their heads con- 
stantly under their plumes of scarlet wool, Don Inigo 
and Dona Dior came on at a sharp but not precipitate 
trot^Dona Flor seeming to be as well used as her father 
to journeys across the mountains and to the adventurous 
life of the time. 

But it was evident that the servant who acted as 
scout was less confident than his masters ; for, when he 
caught sight of the young gypsy, he stopped to question 
her, and the others rode up as the prudent domestic was 
inquiring if it would be safe for them to halt at the 
little inn which they had just lost sight of, having 
ridden down into a hollow, but which they had espied 
on the horizon as they descended the mountain they had 
just left behind .them. 


When Don Inigo and Dona Flor arrived, the worthy 
retainer’s hesitation was increased rather than dimin- 
ished by the ambiguous and almost mocking replies of 
the young gypsy, who had retained her seat and con- 
tinued to spin while she. talked with him, hut rose when 




DONA FLOR. 


45 


she saw his master and mistress approach, laid aside her 
distaff and spindle, leaped the little brook as a gazelle 
or a wagtail might have done, and took her stand on 
the sloping bank beside the road, while her goat, an 
inquisitive creature, came down from the hill, where she 
was browsing on tlie leaves of briars, and ran up and 
gazed at the equestrians with her great intelligent eyes. 

“ See what a lovely child, father! ” said Dona Flor, 
stopping the old man and gazing at the girl with the 
same admiration she herself aroused. 

Don Inigo nodded his head approvingly. 

“ Shall we speak to her, father? ” asked Dona Flor. 

“ Do as you please, my child,” said the old man. 

“ What is your name, my lovely child ? ” asked Dona 
^ Flor. 

“ The Christians call me Ginesta, and the Moors Aisse ; 
for I have two names, — one before Mahomet, the other 
before Jesus Christ.” 

As she pronounced the blessed name of Our Saviour, 
the girl crossed herself, thereby proving that she was a 
Christian. 

" We, being good Catholics,” said Dona Flor, with a 
smile, “ will call you Ginesta.” 

" Call me what you please,” said the gypsy, “ and my 
name will always seem sweet to me from your lovely 
mouth, pronounced by your sweet voice.” 

“Well, well 7^1 ora,” said Don Inigo, “ the person 
who had told you that you would find the nymph 
Flattery in this desert would have been treated by you 
as a liar, woulji he not? And yet you see that he would 
have told the mith I ” 

“ I do not flatter; I admire,” said the gypsy. 

Doha Flor smiled and blushed at the same time, and, 
to give a different turn to the conversation, which was 


46 


THE BRIGAND. 


becoming embarrassing in its eulogistic artlessness, she 
asked, — 

“What answer did you give to Nunez, my lovely 
child?” 

“ Inquire first what question he asked me. ” 

“ Well, what question did he ask you ? ” 

“ He questioned me about the road, asking me if the 
road was safe, asking me if the inn was a good one.” 

“ And you replied ? ” 

“ I replied by singing the traveller’s song.” 

“ What is the song ? ” 

“Listen.” 

And the gypsy sang the following stanza from an 
Andalusian ballad, as the bird sings, — that is to say, 
without effort, — and to an air which seemed nothing 
more than a simple modulation of her ordinary voice : 

“ If the skies are clear. 

Take care ! 

If the path be sure. 

Beware I 

May the Virgin with eyes of blue 
Watch o’er thee 1 
Adios, travellers, adios 1 
Go, and God’s peace be with thee 1 ” 

“That is what you said to Nunez, my dear child,” 
said Dona Flor ; “ but what have you to say to us ? ” 

“To you, lovely senora,” replied the gypsy, “to you 
I will tell the truth; for you are the first lady from 
the town who has spoken to me kindly and without 
contempt. ” 

Thereupon she walked a few steps nearer, and said, 
placing her right hand on the mule’s neck and the fore- 
finger of her left hand on her lips, — 

“ Go no farther!” 


DONA FLOR. 


47 


“ What, go no farther ? ” 

“ Turn hack ! ” 

“ Girl, are you making sport of us ? ” said the old man. 

“ God is my witness that I give you the advice I 
would give my own father and sister! ” 

“Will you not return to Alhama with two of our 
servants, my child? ” said Don Inigo. 

“ And you yourself, father? ” 

“ I shall continue my journey with the third. The 
king will he at Granada to-morrow; he has ordered me 
to be there to-day, and I will not make the king wait 
for me.” 

“ And I will go where you go; where you lead, father, 
I will follow.” 

“ ’T is well! Forward, Nunez.” 

And Don Inigo took a purse from his pocket and 
offered it to the girl. 

“ There is no purse well filled enough to pay for the 
advice I give you, senor traveller,” she said with a 
queenly gesture; “ so keep your purse: it will he wel- 
come where you are going.” 

Thereupon Dona Flor unfastened the clasp at her neck 
and beckoned to the girl to come nearer. 

“ Will you accept this ? ” she said. 

“ From whom ? ” asked the gypsy, gravely. 

“ From a friend.” 

“ Oh, yes. ” 

And she came nearer, offering Dona Flor her neck and 
her forehead. 

Dona Flor fastened the brooch at the gypsy’s neck, 
and hastily touched the lovely child’s brow with her 
lips, while her father, who was too good a Christian to 
tolerate such familiarity on his daughter’s part with a 
semi-infidel, was giving a last order to Nunez. 


48 


THE BRIGAND. 


Nunez was already thirty yards in advance. 

" Let us go! ” said Don Inigo. 

“ I am ready, father,” Dona Flor replied. 

She resumed her place at the old man’s right hand, 
as he rode forward, waving his hand in farewell to the 
gypsy, and shouting to his three men, — those in the 
rear as well as the one in front, — 

“ Attention, you fellows! ” 

As for the gypsy, she remained standing where she 
was, looking after the beautiful girl who had called her 
her friend, and murmuring in an undertone the refrain 
of her ballad : — 

“ Adios, travellers, adios ! 

Go, and God’s peace be with thee I ” 

She followed them thus with her eyes, with evident 
and increasing disquietude, until they had all disap- 
peared, masters and servants, behind the little eminence 
that limited her horizon; then, being unable to see them 
any longer, she leaned forward, listening. 

Five minutes passed, during which the gypsy’s lips 
repeated mechanically ; — 

“ Adios, travellers, adios 1 
Go, and God’s peace be with thee! ” 

Suddenly she heard the report of several arquebuses, 
followed by threatening shouts and cries of pain; then 
one of the two servants who formed the rearguard 
appeared on the crest of the hill, bleeding freely from 
a wound in the shoulder, lying close to his horse’s back, 
and driving his spurs into his sides, and passed the girl 
like a flash of lightning, crying, — 

“Help! help! murder! ” 

The gypsy stood for a moment as if in uncertainty; 
then she seemed to resolve upon a decisive step: she 


DONA FLOE. 


49 


ran to her distaff, tied her girdle to one end of it by 
way of banner, and , rushing toward the mountain , which 
she ascended so rapidly that the goat could hardly follow 
her, she bounded from rock to rock to the top of a cliff 
which overlooked the whole valley, and there, waving 
her bright-colored scarf, she called three times with all 
the force of her lungs, — 

“ Fernand ! Fernand ! Fernand ! ” 


4 


50 


THE BKIGAND. 


VI. 

THE INTERIOR OF THE MOORISH KING INN. 

Though we were to hasten toward .the spot where the 
catastrophe of which we have heard the tumult had 
taken place, as swiftly as Don Inigo’s servant rode away 
from it ; though we were to leap to the summit of the 
little eminence which overlooks the road, with the 
agility displayed by the gypsy and her goat in reaching 
the top of the cliff from which Ginesta was waving her 
girdle, — we should arrive too late to he present at the 
catastrophe which had drenched with blood the narrow 
path leading to the inn. 

All that we could see would be the bodies of Nunez 
and his horse blocking the path, while Torrihio, griev- 
ously wounded, crawls toward one of “the crosses we 
have described, and supports himself against it, almost 
dying. 

Don Inigo and his daughter have disappeared within 
the inn, the door of which has closed upon them and the 
party of brigands whose prisoners they are. 

But we, who, in our quality of novelist, have the 
power, either, like Mephistopheles, to make walls 
transparent, or, like Asmodeus, to raise roofs, will not 
permit anything that takes place within our domain to 
remain concealed from the eyes of our readers, and, 
touching with our pen the door of the inn, which will 
open as before the wand of a magician , we will say to 
them, “ Look! ” 


INTERIOR OF THE MOORISH KING INN. 


51 


The pavement of the courtyard presented, at first 
glance, traces of the struggle which, having begun in 
the road outside, had continued within. A trail of 
blood, which could be followed for more than two hun- 
dred yards, passed through the gateway and led to a 
corner of the wall, where a brigand wounded by the 
arquebus of one of Don Inigo’s men was being cared for 
by Amapola, the same chambermaid whom we saw bring- 
ing flowers to the room prepared for the travellers, and 
by the mozuelo who held the rein of Don Ramiro 
d’Avila’s horse. 

Don Inigo’s velvet cap and a piece of Dona Flor’s 
white cloak, lying on the steps that led from the yard 
to the kitchen, indicated that the struggle had been 
renewed there ; that the two travellers had been taken 
in that direction, and consequently must be sought 
there. 

At the outer door of the inn, which opened on those 
two steps, began the carpet of flowers strewn by the fair 
Dona Flor’s love courier; but the carpet was trodden 
under foot, marred by the contact of heavy sandals, by 
the dust from the cloaks of the combatants, and by some 
drops of blood, which glistened here and there, on a 
rose, or a lily, or an anemone, like quivering liquid 
rubies. 

The door between the kitchen and the room in which, 
by Don Ramiro’s forethought, the table had been laid 
for the two travellers, and in which the odor of the 
perfumes burned there a moment before could still be 
detected in the air, — that door was open and the door- 
way blocked by servants of the inn, who were brigands 
in disguise, ready to bear aid to the brigands of the 
road; and through the opening, shrieks, threats, groans, 
and imprecations poured forth like torrents of wrath. 


52 


THE BRIGAND. 


There it was that the terrible scene was in progress 
and would in all probability reach its denouement, — the 
scene of which the little gypsy had a horrified premoni- 
tion when she advised the two travellers to turn back. 

If one could have pushed aside the living barricade 
that closed the door, and have broken out a path into ■ 
the room, this is the spectacle that would have met his 
eyes : — 

Don Inigo, lying prostrate on the floor, was still try- 
ing to defend himself with the useless stump of a sword, 
whose blade, before it was broken, had struck down two 
brigands; it was their blood that stained the flowers 
strewn on the floor. 

Three men could with difficulty hold him, although 
one of them had his knee upon his chest and was hold- 
ing his Catalan knife to his throat. 

The other two were searching him, not so much for 
the purpose of robbing him, perhaps, as to take away 
any concealed weapons that he might have. \ 

Two steps away from him, leaning against the wall \ 
for support, stood Dona Flor, with her hair unbound and « 
floating, the hood of her cloak in tatters, the priceless ^ 
buttons torn from her dress. , 

It was evident that, while thus laying profane hands 
upon the beautiful traveller, they had, for reasons readily 
understood, shown more consideration for her than for 
the old man. jH 

Dona Flor was, as we have said, gloriously lovely, i 
and the leader of the band, the hero of this narrative, 
the Salteador, was reputed to be a man of gallantry, j 

more terrible, perhaps, under such circumstances than .J 
the most pitiless cruelty would be. ^ 

The young girl made a superb picture, her head rest- 
ing against the white wall, with, her magnificent eyes, ^ 

*4 


INTERIOR OF THE MOORISH KING INN. 53 

which, from beneath their long velvety lids, emitted 
flashes of wrath and indignation rather than the timid 
gleam of fear and entreaty. 

Her bare white arms were hanging by her side, — in 
snatching the priceless clasps from her sleeves they had 
torn the sleeves themselves, — and seemed like bas-reliefs 
carved by a skilful sculptor on the surface of the wall. 
Not a word, not a complaint, not a groan, had escaped 
her from the moment she was seized ; the wailing and 
groaning that filled the air came from the two brigands 
wounded by Don Inigo’s sword. 

Doubtless the pure and lovely girl still believed that 
she was in danger of nothing more than death, and she 
deemed it unworthy a noble Spanish woman to lament 
and groan and entreat in face of that danger. 

Sure that she could not escape them, and having taken 
almost everything valuable that she had, the brigands 
formed a circle about the fair traveller, and eyed her 
with glances and laughter that would have made her 
lower her eyes, had not those eyes, open to their fullest 
extent and lost in space, sought, through the ceiling, 
the walls, and the firmament, the invisible God to whom 
alone she, a noble Christian woman, deigned to appeal 
for help. 

Perhaps, too. Dona Flor was thinking of the hand- 
some gallant whom she had noticed, for a year past, 
prowling about under her chamber window as soon as 
evening came, and who inundated her balcony with the 
loveliest flowers in Andalusia during the night. 

But, although she was silent, there was, as we have 
said, a great tumult of shouts and insults and threats 
about her, and especially about her father. 

“Villains!” cried the old man, “kill me, murder 
me; but I warn you that I met, a league this side of 


54 


THE BRIGAND. 


Alhama, a party of soldiers whose commander I know. 
He knows that I am on my way to Granada by command 
of King Don Carlos; and when he learns that I have 
not arrived there, he will suspect that I have been mur- 
dered, and in that case you will not have a man of sixty 
and a girl of fifteen to deal with, but a whole company 
of soldiers, and we shall see, brigands! we shall see, 
bandits I if you are as brave against the king’s troops, 
man to man , as you are here, twenty to one ! ” 

“ Bah ! ” retorted one of the brigands, " let the king’s 
troops come. We know them; we saw them pass yester4 
day ; we have a strong underground fortress with suhj 
terranean passages leading into the mountains.” 

“ And, after all,” interposed another, “who says that 
we mean to murder you? If you think that, you are 
mistaken. We kill only the poor devils we can get noth- 
ing out of; hut we take the greatest care of noble lords 
like you who can pay a ransom, and we have proved it 
by not making the slightest scratch on you, ingrate, 
although you fought hard with your sword and wounded 
two of us.” 

At that point a voice as sweet and clear as an angel’s 
mingled with those coarse and threatening voices. It 
was the girl’s voice, speaking for the first time. 

“ Very well ! ” she said; “ if it is only a question of 
paying a ransom, it shall be paid. ]\Iake it equal to a 
prince’s ransom, and you shall not fail to receive it.” 

“By St. James! we reckon on it, my pretty child! 
That, you see, is why we would like to have your 
worthy father cool down a little. Business is busi- 
ness, deuce take it! — you can settle it by discussion, 
but you mix it all up by fighting. And here ’s your 
father still at it, you see! ” 

In truth, Don Inigo at that moment renewed hi.s 


INTERIOR OF THE MOORISH KING INN. 


55 


efforts to free himself, and wounded one of the brigands 
in the face with the stump of his sword, which they had 
been unable to take from his hand, whose grasp was 
like that of an iron vice. 

“Body of Christ! ” shouted the man who held the 
knife at the old man’s throat, “do that once more, and 
you will have to discuss your ransom with God and not 
with us , my gentleman ! ” 

“ Father ! ” cried the terrified girl, stepping forward. 

“ Yes,” said one of the brigands, “ listen to the pretty 
young lady; she talks gold, and her mouth is like the 
Arabian princess’s that only opened to let fall a pearl 
or diamond with every word she said. Don’t you he 
alarmed, my good man; give us your word not to try to 
escape; give a safe-conduct to our worthy friend the 
landlord, so that he can go to Malaga without fear of 
the authorities; there let your steward hand him a 
thousand, two thousand, three thousand crowns, as your 
generosity tells jmu,~we don’t tax travellers, — and 
when the landlord returns with the money you will he 
free. It is understood, of course, that if he doesn’t 
return you will answer for him tooth for tooth , eye for 
eye, body for body.” 

“Father, father! pray listen to what these men say,” 
persisted the girl, “ and do not endanger your precious 
existence for a few bags of gold.” 

“ Do you hear, do you hear, Senor Prince ? — for 
you must be a prince, if not a viceroy or a king or an 
emperor, for this lovely young woman to speak so flu- 
ently and nonchalantly of worldly wealth, — do you 
hear?” 

“But while your worthy accomplice the host,” said 
the old man, consenting for the first time to descend to 
discussion with enemies whom he had hitherto contented 


56 


THE BRIGAND. 


himself with insulting or striking, — “while your 
worthy accomplice the host goes to find my steward 
with a letter from me, what will you do with us in this 
den of thieves ? ” 

“ Den of thieves ? Oho, Senor Calahazas , do you 
hear what he calls the Moorish King? A den of 
thieves! Come here and show this excellent hidalgo 
his error.” 

“ What will we do with you ? ” replied another 
brigand, without giving Don Calahazas time to defend 
the honor of his inn, — “ what will we do with you ? 
That ’s a very simple question, and we will tell you. 
In the first place, we will ask you for your word of 
honor as a gentleman not to try to escape.” 

“ A gentleman does n’t give his word of honor to 
brigands. ” 

“ A gentleman gives his word to God, father, ” said 
Dona Dior. 

“ Just listen once for all to what this pretty child 
says, for the wisdom of heaven speaks through her 
mouth.” 

“ Well, when I have given you my word, assuming 
that I do give it to you, what will you do ? ” 

“ Well, in the first place, we won’t lose sight of 
you. ” 

“What!’.’ cried Don Inigo; “on the faith of my 
word you won’t allow me to continue my journey?” 

“ Oh ! ” retorted the brigand, “ the days have gone by 
when the Jews of Burgos loaned the Cid a thousand gold 
marks on a box filled with earth ; and instead of doing 
like the good Israelites, who didn’t look into the box 
until they had paid over the money, we will look into 
it first.” 

“ Villains ! ” muttered Don Inigo. 




RIOR OF THE MOORISH KING INN. 


57 


“ Father,” continued Dona Flor, still trying to calm 
the old man, — “ father, in heaven’s name! ” 

“J^ll, what will you do in addition to keeping me 
nTsi^tl ” 

“ We will fasten you to yonder iron ring with a good 
strong chain.” 

^ As he spoke the brigand pointed to a ring set in the 
wall, evidently placed there for use on such occasions. 

“ You will chain me like a Moorish slave ? ” 

And at that threat, which aroused all the waves of 
his pride, he attempted and accomplished a movement, 
so violent and at the same time so rapid, that he over- 
turned the brigand who was kneeling on his chest, and 
rose threateningly on one knee. 

But, just as a rock repels a wave to be almost instantly 
submerged by it anew, five or six brigands threw them- 
selves upon Don Inigo in a twinkling, and with a 
wrench that would have broken his arm if it had not 
yielded, tore from him the hilt of the sword and the 
remaining six inches of steel, while the man with the 
knife, ashamed to have been thrown down by the old 
man’s efforts, rushed at him, brandishing his weapon, 
and swearing by his God that the prisoner’s last moment 
had come. 

When she saw the gleam of the knife-blade. Dona Flor 
uttered a terrible cry and rushed toward her father. 

But one brigand held Dona Flor, while another held 
his companion’s hand. 

" Vicente! Vicente! ” cried he who arrested his com- 
rade’s hand at the risk of having the threatening knife 
turned against himself, — “ what the devil do you mean 
to do ? ” 

“ Why, to kill the madman, of course! ” 

“ You are mistaken ; you won’t kill him.” 


58 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ What ’s that, I won’t kill him! Ah ! by St. James, 
we ’ll see whether I will or not.” 

“You won’t kill him, I tell you! if you do, you ’ll 
just make a hole in a bag of gold, and all his ransom 
will run out through the hole. Vicente, you have a 
detestable disposition, I have always told you so! Let 
me talk with this worthy nobleman, and you ’ll see that 
I will make him listen to reason.” 

The brigand whom his comrade had called by the 
name of Vicente doubtless realized the justice of those 
words, for he withdrew, grumbling, to be sure, but still 
he withdrew. 

When we say that he withdrew, we mean, not that 
he left the room, but that he stepped back a few feet, — 
like the wounded jaguar, ready at any moment to leap 
again on his prey. 

The brigand who had assumed the role of negotiator 
took Vicente’s place. 

"Come, Senor Caballero, be reasonable ,” he said; 
“we won’t fasten you to the iron ring,, we’ll content 
ourselves by putting you in the cellar, where the choice 
wines are kept, which has as stout a door as the dun- 
geons of Granada, with a sentinel outside the door.” 

“How now, villain! you propose to treat a man of 
my rank in that way ? ” 

“ I shall be with you, father ! I will not leave you! ” 
cried Dona Flor. “ Two or three days are soon passed, 
you know — ” 

"Ah! my pretty child,” said one of the brigands, 
“we can’t promise you that.” 

“ What? What is it that you can’t promise me ? ” 

" That you will remain with your father.” 

“ Great Heaven! what do you intend to do with me, 
in God’s name ? ” cried the girl. 


INTEKIOR OF THE MOORISH KING INN. 59 


“ What do we intend to do with you ? ” replied the 
negotiator. “ Oh, we are not great noblemen, to tell 
you that ; young ladies of your age and rank and charm 
are our chief’s booty.” 

“Oh, my God!” murmured Dona Flor, while the 
old man uttered a roar of wrath. 

“Don’t you he alarmed,” laughed the brigand; “ our 
chief is young and handsome, — ay , and of a good family, 
too, so they say. And so, whatever happens, you will 
have one consolation, my good man ! you can say to 
yourself, even if you ’re as nobly born as the king, that 
there is no mesalliance.” 

Not till the last words were uttered, did Dona Flor 
realize to the full the horror of the fate for which she 
might be reserved; she uttered a cry, and, with a move- 
ment swift as thought, drew from her garter a tiny 
dagger, sharp as a needle, and instantly turned the 
gleaming blade toward her breast. 

The brigands saw the movement and recoiled a step, 
and Dona Flor once more stood alone against the wall , 
calm but resolved, like the statue of Determination. 

“ Father,” she said, “ what do you bid me do ? ” 

And the virtuous chijji^^ye, as well as her voice, 
indicated that, at the first word from the old man, the 
keen blade would disappear to the hilt in her heart. 

Don Inigo did not reply; but the critical situation of 
affairs restored for a moment his youthful strength, and 
with a powerful and unexpected movement he threw 
aside the two brigands who were holding him down, 
and with a single bound stood upon his feet, with open 
arms, crying, — 

“Here, my child! come here! ” 

Dona Flor darted to her father’s side and slipped the 
little dagger into his hand, saying in an undertone, — 


60 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ Father, my father ! remember Virginius the Koman, 
whose story you have told me ! ” 

The words had hardly left her mouth, when a brigand, 
who had put out his hand toward her, rolled at Don 
Inigo’s feet, struck to the heart by the fragile weapon, 
which seemed a plaything rather than a means of 
defence. 

On the instant a terrible cry of wrath resounded 
through the inn. Ten knives opened, ten daggers 
flashed from their sheaths, ten swords left their scab- 
bards and were brandished menacingly at the two pris- 
oners, who, seeing that the moment had come for them 
to die, exchanged a last kiss, whispered a last prayer, 
and, together raising their arms to heaven, cried in the 
same breath , — 

“ Strike! ” 

“ Death ! death ! ” roared the brigands, rushing upon 
the father and daughter with uplifted weapons. 

But suddenly they heard the crashing sound of a win- 
dow broken by a powerful blow with the flst. A young 
man with no other weapon than a Basque dagger, which 
he wore in his belt, leaped lightly into the room and 
said in a voice evidently used to command, — 

“ Hola 1 my masters, pray, what is happening here ? ” 
At the sound of that voice, which, however, had not 
risen above the ordinary diapason of human speech, the 
cries died away, the knives closed, the daggers disap- 
peared in their sheaths, the swords returned to their 
scabbards, and the whole band drew back in silence, 
leaving the father and daughter entwined in each other^s 
arms, in the centre of a great circle, facing the new- 
comer. 


THE BRIGAND. 


61 


VII. 

THE BRIGAND. 

The individual whose sudden arrival — evidently as 
unexpected to those who threatened as to those who 
were threatened — had produced such an extraordinary 
reaction, deserves, by reason of his manner of appearing 
on the scene and by reason of the part he is destined to 
play in this history, that we should interrupt the recital 
of events in which he is to take part, to place his por- 
trait before our readers’ eyes. 

He was a young man of some twenty-seven or twenty- 
eight years. His costume — that of , an Andalusian 
mountaineer — was of extreme elegance. It consisted 
of a broad-brimmed gray felt hat, adorned with two 
eagle’s feathers, a doublet of embroidered leather such 
as the hunters of Cordova still wear on their excursions 
in the Sierra Morena, an Algerian belt of watered silk 
and gold, short clothes of orange velvet with carved 
buttons, boots of leather like that of the doublet, laced 
on the sides, hut only at the ankle and the knee, being 
open all along the calf so that the stocking could be 
seen. 

A plain dagger like that carried by the bear-hunters of 
the Pyrenees — that is to say, with a handle of carved 
horn embellished with silver nails, a blade two fingers 
wide and eight inches long, sharpened at the point and 
on both edges, and contained in a leather sheath with 
silver ornaments — was, as we have said, the only weapon 


62 


THE BRIGAND. 


of the young chief; for chief he unquestionably was, 
since his voice had such a direct and immediate influ- 
ence upon the men of blood and rapine who had recoiled 
before him. 

The remainder of his costume consisted of a cloak 
with horizontal stripes, in which he bore himself as 
majestically as an emperor in his purple robes. 

As to the new-comer’s physical qualities, the brigand 
who had asserted, to soothe Don Inigo’s sensitive feel- 
ings, that the captain was not only young and hand- 
some and refined, but had such a noble bearing that he 
was generally looked upon as a hidalgo, that brigand 
had said none too much, and his portrait rather failed 
to do justice to its subject than flattered him. 

When her eyes fell upon the young man, Dona Flor 
uttered an exclamation of amazement which resembled 
a cry of joy, as if the new-comer’s appearance, instead 
of being a reinforcement to the brigands, were succor 
sent from heaven to her father and herself. 

As for Don Inigo, he understood that from that 
moment he had nothing more to do with the rest of the 
band, and that his daughter’s fate and his own depended 
thenceforth upon this young man. 

But, as if he were too proud to speak first, he simply 
placed the bloody point of the dagger against Dona Flor’s 
breast and waited. 

The brigand therefore was the first to speak. 

“I do not doubt your courage, senor,” he said; “it 
seems to me, however, great presumption on your part 
to think that you can defend yourself with that needle 
against a score of men armed with swords and daggers.” 

“ If I had any desire to live,” replied Don Inigo, “ it 
would indeed be madness ; but as I have no other pur- 
pose than to kill my daughter, and myself after her. 


THE BRIGAND. 63 

that seemed and still seems to me not only possible, but 
easy of accomplishment. ” 

“ And why do you propose to kill the senora and 
yourself after her 1 ” 

“ Because we are threatened with outrages to which 
we prefer death.” 

“ Is the senora your wife 1 ” 

“ She is my daughter.” 

“ At what price do you estimate your life and her 
honor ? ” 

“ My life at a thousand crowns ; but her honor is 
beyond price.” 

“I make you a present of your life, senor,” replied 
the brigand; “and as for the senora’s honor, that also 
is as safe here as if she were in her mother’s chamber 
and under her protection.” 

A murmur of discontent made itself heard among the 
brigands. 

“Leave the room, every man! ” said the Salteador, 
putting out his hand, and holding it in that position 
until the last man was outside the door. 

When they had all disappeared, the Salteador secured 
the door and returned to Don Inigo and his daughter, 
who followed his movements with astonishment mingled 
with anxiety. 

“You must forgive them, senor,” he said; “they are 
vulgar creatures, and not gentlemen like ourselves. ” 

Dona Flor and Don Inigo gazed with less anxiety 
but with greater astonishment at this brigand who called 
himself a gentleman, and who, by the nobility of his 
manners and the dignity of his bearing, even more than 
by his words, proved that he told no falsehood. 

, “ Senor,” said the girl, “ my father is, as I can under- 
stand , without words to thank you ; permit me, therefore , 


64 


THE BRIGAND. 


to offer our acknowledgments in his name and my 
own. ” 

“ Your father is right, senora; for, coming from such a 
lovely mouth, they will have a force that not even a 
king’s lips could give them.” 

Then, turning to the old man, he added, — 

“ I know that you are in haste to continue your jour- 
ney, senor. Where are you going ? ” 

“ I am going to Granada, whither the king has sum- 
moned me.” 

“ Ah, yes,” said the brigand, with a half-hitter, half- 
mocking smile, “the rumor of his arrival has reached 
even our ears; we saw the soldiers who are beating up 
the mountains pass yesterday; he proposes, so they 
say, that a child of twelve shall be able to start from 
Granada and go to Malaga, with a bag of gold in either 
hand, and not meet on the road a single person who will 
say anything more to him than the customary traveller’s 
salutation, ‘ Go, and God’s peace be with you ! ’ ” 

“Such is, in truth, his purpose,” said Don Inigo, 
“ and I know that orders have been given in accordance 
therewith.” 

“ What period does King Don Carlos assign for this 
conquest of the mountain ? ” 

“ It is said that he has given the grand justiciary only 
a fortnight.” 

“ What a misfortune that you did not pass this way 
three weeks hence instead of to-day, senora! ” rejoined 
the brigand, addressing the young girl; “on this road, 
where you have been so terrified by brigands, you would 
have met none hut honest people, who would have said, 

‘ Go, and God’s peace he with you! ’ and, at need, would 
have done escort duty ! ” 

“We have been more fortunate than that, senor,” 


THE BRIGAND. 6 5 

replied Don Inigo’s daughter, “ since we have met a 
gentleman who has restored our liberty. ” 

“ You must not thank me for it,” returned the brigand, 
“ for I obey a power greater than my will, stronger than 
my nature.” 

“ What power is that 1 ” 

The brigand shrugged his shoulders. 

“ I cannot say, ” he answered ; “ unfortunately I am a 
man ruled by first impressions. There is between my 
heart and my head, my head and my hand, my hand 
and my sword, a mysterious sympathy which leads me 
sometimes to good, sometimes to evil, — oftener to evil 
than to good. That sympathy, as soon as I saw you, 
plucked the wrath from my heart and hurled it far away 
from me; so far that, on my honor as a gentleman, I 
have sought it with my eyes and have been unable to 
find it ! ” 

Don Inigo had kept his eyes on the young man while 
he was speaking, and, strange to relate! that feeling of 
sympathy which the brigand described as best he could 
in the half-jesting, half gentle and tender words he 
uttered, — that feeling was made clear to the old man by 
an analogous sensation that crept into his own heart, 
against his will. 

Meanwhile Doha Flor had slowly drawn closer to her 
father, not through fear, but on the contrary, because 
while listening to the young man’s voice she was con- 
scious of a strange sensation that made a sort of shudder 
run through her veins, and, like the innocent child she 
was, she sought in her father’s arms shelter from this 
unfamiliar sentiment that was taking possession of her. 

“ Young man,” said Don Inigo, replying to the 
brigand’s last words, “I have the same feeling toward 
you that you have felt toward me; it was not my evil 

5 


66 


THE BRIGAND. 


star, but my good fortune, therefore, that caused me to 
pass over this road to-day rather than three weeks hence ; 
for perhaps it would then he too late for me to render 
you a service equal to that you render me at this 
moment. ” 

“ Eender me a service?” said the brigand,, with a 
smile. 

And his features contracted slightly, as if to say, 
“ The man must be omnipotent who will render me the 
only service that any one can render me ! ” 

As if he understood what was taking place in the 
young man’s mind, Don Inigo continued: — 

“ The merciful Lord God assigned to every one his 
place in the world : he gave kings to kingdoms , and to 
kings he gave the nobles who are their natural escort; 
he gave to cities the people who dwell in them, — trades- 
men , merchants, common people ; he gave to the sea the 
daring navigators who cross oceans to find lost worlds or 
discover unknown worlds ; he gave to the mountains the 
men of blood, and in those same mountains placed beasts 
of prey and carnage, as if to imply that he likened them 
to each other by giving them the same abode, and that 
he placed them on the last rung of the social ladder. ” 
The brigand made a gesture. 

“ Let me continue,” said Don Inigo. 

The young man bowed in token of assent. 

“ And so,” the old man went on, “ in order that we 
may meet with men outside of the circle in which God 
has enclosed them, like flocks. of individuals of the same 
species, but of different worth, there must have been 
some great social cataclysm or some great family disas- 
ter, which has violently hurled them out of the circle 
in which they belonged into a circle that was not in- 
tended for them. So it happens that we, for example. 


THE BRIGAND. 


67 


who were born to be gentlemen in attendance upon 
kings, have, each in our own way, followed a different 
destiny. My destiny made of me a navigator; yours 
has made of you — ’’ 

The old man stopped. 

“ Tinish your sentence,” said the young man, with a 
smile; “you will tell me nothing that I do not know, 
and I can listen to anything from you.’’ 

“ Your destiny has made of you a brigand ! ” 

“ True ; but you know that the same word is used for 
outlaw and brigand.” 

“ Yes, I know it, and be sure that I do not confound 
the two. You are an outlaw ? ” he added in an inter- 
rogative tone. 

“ But who are you , senor ? ” 

“ I am Don Inigo Velasco de Haro.” 

At those words the young man removed his hat and 
threw it on the floor. 

“ Your pardon,” he said; “ I remained covered, and I 
am not a grandee of Spain. ” 

“ I am not the king,” replied Don Inigo, with a smile. 

“ No, but you are as noble as the king.” 

“ You know me, then ? ” asked Don Inigo. 

“ I have heard my father speak of you a thousand 
times.” 

“ Then your father knows me ? ” 

“ He has told me more than once that he had that 
honor. ” 

“ Your father’s name, young man? ” 

“ Oh, yes, yes,” murmured Dona Flor, “ his name ! 
his name ! ” 

“Alas! senor,” replied the brigand, with an air of 
profound melancholy, “ it would be no joy or satisfac- 
tion to my father to hear from the mouth of such a man 


68 


THE BRIGAND. 


as I am the name of a Spaniard of ancient race who 
hasn’t a drop of Moorish blood in his veins; do not ask 
me , therefore, to add that sorrow and shame to the sorrow 
and shame he already owes to me.” 

“ He is right, father! ” cried the young girl, eagerly. 

The old man glanced at Dona Dior, who lowered her 
eyes and blushed. 

“ Does not your opinion coincide with the fair 
senora’s? ” the brigand asked him. 

“ It does, ” replied Don Inigo. “ Keep the secret of 
your name, therefore; but if you have no equally strong 
motive for concealing from me the cause of the strange 
life you have taken up; if your banishment from society 
and your taking refuge in these mountains are, as I pre- 
sume, the result of some youthful folly; if you have, I 
will not say the shadow of remorse, but the appearance 
of regret for the life you are leading, — I pledge my 
word, before God, to act as your protector, ay, as your 
guarantor. ” 

‘‘ Thanks, senor ! I accept your word, although I 
doubt whether it is in the power of any man except 
him who has received supreme power from God to 
restore me to the place I once occupied in the world, 
and yet I have nothing shameful with which to reproach 
myself. Hot blood, a heart too quick to take fire, 
impelled me to commit certain faults ; those faults drove 
me to crime. To-day, the faults are committed, the 
crimes are consummated; they are so many bottomless 
pits lying open behind me ; so that I cannot return by 
the road by which I came, and it would require some 
superhuman power to prepare a different road for me. 
Sometimes I dream of the possibility of such a miracle; 
I should be happy to see it accomplished, doubly happy 
to see it accomplished by you, and to return, like young 


THE BRIGAND. 


69 


Tobias, to my father’s house, under the guidance of an 
angel ! Meanwhile, I hope — for hope is the last friend 
of the unfortunate, although it is often as deceitful, 
more deceitful, than the others — I hope but I do not 
believe. I live on, plunging deeper every day in the 
steep and barren road of revolt against society and the 
law. I ascend, and because I ascend I believe that I 
am exalting myself. I command, and because I com- 
mand I believe that I am king. But sometimes, at 
night, in my hours of solitude, in my moments of sad- 
ness,! reflect, and then I understand that, if one ascends 
to reach the throne, one ascends also to reach the 
scaffold. ” 

Dona Flor uttered a stifled shriek. 

Don Inigo offered the brigand his hand. 

But he, without accepting the honor the old gentle- 
man bestowed upon him, bowed and placed one hand 
upon his breast, pointing with the other to a chair. 

“Then you mean to tell me everything?” said Don 
Inigo, seating himself. 

“Everything, except my father’s name.” 

The old hidalgo, in his turn, invited the young man 
to be seated, but he declined. 

“ What you are going to hear is not a story, but a con- 
fession,” he said. “ To a priest I would make that con- 
fession on my knees; but to a man, be that man Don 
Inigo or the king himself, I will make it standing.” 

The young girl leaned against her father’s chair, and 
the brigand, humble but erect, in a melancholy but 
tranquil voice, began the following narrative. 


70 


THE BRIGAND. 


VIII 

THE NARRATIVE. 

“In the first place, senor,” the brigand began, “I 
think I may make this assertion: that there always is, 
in the beginnings of a man who has become a criminal, 

— no matter how great a criminal he may have become, 

— a force independent of his will that causes him to 
take the first steps outside of the straight road. 

“ To make the man turn aside from that road, a power- 
ful hand is needed, and sometimes the iron hand of 
destiny itself is none too strong. 

“ But to lead the child astray , whose sight is feeble 
and whose step is uncertain, sometimes requires only a 
breath ! 

“ That breath blew upon my cradle. 

“That breath was my father’s indifference, I might 
almost say, his hatred of me.” 

“ Senor,” murmured the girl, “ do not begin by accus- 
ing others, if you wish God to forgive you.” 

“I do not accuse, God forbid! my errors and my 
crimes are my own, and on the day of the last judgment 
I shall not seek to charge them upon any other than 
myself ; but I must tell things as they are. 

“ My mother was once one of the loveliest girls in 
Cordova, and to-day, at forty-three, she is still one of 
the loveliest women in Granada. 

“ I have never known the causes that led to her mar- 
riage to my father; what I can say, what I have always 


THE NARRATIVE. 71 

noticed, is that they lived rather as strangers to each 
other than as husband and wife. 

“ I was born. I have often heard their mutual 
friends say that they had hoped that my birth would 
bring them nearer together; but their hopes were disap- 
pointed. Cold to the mother, my father was cold to the 
child; and from the day that I opened my eyes, I felt 
that one of the two props that God has given to man to 
support him on his entrance into life was taken from me. 

“ It is very true that my mother, to conceal from me 
the error made by destiny, so to speak, in arranging my 
life, enveloped me with a love so tender and so strong 
that it might well have taken the place of the love that 
was withheld from me, and of itself have counted for 
two. 

“But, dearly as my mother loved me, she loved me 
with a woman’s love; in the somewhat less tender but 
more virile affection of the father, there is something 
that speaks to the caprices of the child and to the pas- 
sions of the young man, as God speaks to the Ocean to 
say, ‘ Thou shalt rise no higher; thou shalt go no far- 
ther ! ’ Those caprices, moulded by a father’s hand , those 
passions, held in check by the hand of a man, take the 
form that the mould of society impresses upon them; 
whereas everything overflows in the child brought up 
under the indulgent eye and guided by the wavering 
hand of woman. Maternal indulgence — as boundless 
as maternal love — made of me the high-spirited, ungov- 
ernable horse, who needed but one prick of the spur, 
alas! to spring from the city to the mountain. 

“ However, if my character was the worse for that 
unbridled freedom, my strength gained by it. Not hav- 
ing a father’s stern hand to close the house door upon 
me, laughing in anticipation at the feeble reprimand 


72 


THE BRIGAND. 


that awaited me on my return, I was always wandering 
about in the company of the mountaineers of the Sierra 
Morena. I learned from them how to attack the wild 
boar with the spear, the bear with the dagger. When 
I was but fifteen, those animals, which would have ter- 
rified another boy of that age, were in my eyes adver- 
saries with whom the combat might be longer or 
shorter, more or less dangerous, but who were con- 
quered in advance. As soon as I came upon a trail 
in the mountain, I knew what animal had made it, 
followed him, unearthed him, attacked him. More 
than once I crawled like a snake into some cavern, 
where, when I was once inside, I had no other guide 
or light than the blazing eyes of the beast I had 
come to fight. Ah! those were the times — although 
no one save God alone would witness what was about 
to take place there in the bowels of the earth between 
the animal and myself — those were the times when 
my heart beat fast with pride and joy ! Like Homer’s 
heroes, who attacked the enemy with their tongues 
before attacking him with sword, or javelin, or lance, 
I mocked and defied the wolf, the boar, or the bear I 
had come to seek. Then the struggle would begin be- 
tween man and beast, — a fierce, silent struggle while 
it lasted, but ending in a roar of agony and a cry of 
triumph. Then, like Hercules, the vanquisher of mon- 
sters, to whom I compared myself, I returned to the 
light, dragging behind me the body of the victim, which 
I heaped insults upon in my savage joy, glorifying my 
triumph in some wild song which I improvised, and in 
which I called the torrents that came leaping down from 
the mountains my friends, and the eagles that soared 
above my head my brothers 1 

“ Then came the age at which those pleasures were 


THE NARRATIVE. 


73 


succeeded by passions, and the passions followed their 
course with the same fury that had characterized the 
pleasures. To the passion for gaming and the passion 
of love my mother tried, but fruitlessly as always, to 
oppose the weak barrier of her will. Then she called 
my father to her assistance. 

“ It was too late; being little wonted to obey, I re- 
sisted even my father’s voice. Moreover, that voice, 
speaking to me in the midst of the tempest, was un- 
known to me. I had grown, I had matured, in the 
wrong direction; the shrub would have bent, perhaps; 
the tree, become inflexible, resisted, and continued to 
feel the burning sap of evil flowing beneath its bark, as 
rough and gnarled as that of an oak. 

Oh, I will not tell you — it would be too long a 
story, and then, too, in the presence of your pure 
daughter, respect closes my mouth — I will not tell you 
of the long series of quarrels, nocturnal orgies, foolish 
intrigues, by which I came to be the cause of my father’s 
ruin and a source of bitter grief to my mother. No, I 
pass over the thousand events that compose the tissue 
of my life, more diversified with brawls, love-making 
under balconies, and duels at street corners, than is this 
cloak I wear with its bright colors; I pass over all 
those incidents to come to the one which definitely 
decided my future. 

“ I loved — I thought that I loved a certain woman, 
the sister of one of my friends. I would have sworn, 

I would have maintained against the whole world, — 
forgive me, senora, I had not seen you ! — that she was 
the loveliest of women; when one night, or rather one 
morning, as I returned home, I found at my door that 
friend, the brother of her I loved, mounted, and holding 
a second horse by the bridle. 


74 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ I had a presentiment that he had discovered the 
secret of my love. 

“ ‘ What are you doing here ? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ You see: I am waiting for you.’ 

“ ‘ Here I am.’ 

“ ‘ Have you your sword ? ’ 

“ ‘ It never leaves me. ’ 

“ ‘ Mount this horse and follow me. ’ 

“ ‘ I do not follow : I accompany or I precede. ’ 

“ ‘ Oh, you won’t precede me,’ he said, ‘ for I am in 
a hurry to arrive where I am going. ’ 

“ He put his horse to the gallop. 

“ I did the same with mine, and, side by side, we 
rode at full speed into the mountains. 

“ In about five hundred yards we came to a little 
clearing, where the soft grass grew on a sort of espla- 
nade that seemed to have been levelled by the hand of 
man. 

“ ‘This is the place,’ said Hon Alvar. 

“ That was my friend’s name. 

“ ‘ So he it! ’ I replied. 

“ ‘ Dismount, Don Fernand,’ he said, ‘ and draw your 
sword; for you suspect, I fancy, that I have brought 
you here to fight '? ’ 

“ ‘ I suspected it at once,’ I replied; ‘ but I have no 
idea what can have changed our friendship to hatred. 
Brothers yesterday, enemies to-day!’ 

“ ‘ Enemies, for the very reason that we are brothers! ’ 
said Don Alvar, drawing his sword ; ‘ brothers through 
my sister ! Come , draw, Don Fernand ! ’ 

“ ‘ That, as you well know,’ I replied, ‘ is an invita- 
tion that no one ever offers me twice ; but, in your case, 
I shall wait until you have told me your reason for 
bringing me to this spot. Indeed, Don Alvar, I would 


THE NARRATIVE. 75 

be glad to know what excites you so. What subjects 
of complaint have you against me ? ’ 

“ ‘ I have so many that I prefer not to mention 
them; for, when I recall them, I renew the insult, and 
I am forced to repeat the oath I have taken to wash out 
that insult in your blood. Come, draw your sword, 
Don Fernand! ’ 

“ I did not know myself, I was so calm in face of his 
wrath, so unmoved in face of such provocation. 

“ ‘ I will not fight with you,’ I said, ‘ without know- 
ing why I am fighting. ’ 

“ He drew a package of letters from his pocket. 

“ ‘ Do you recognize these papers ? ’ he demanded. 

“ I shuddered. 

“ ‘ Throw them on the ground,’ I said, ‘ and I will 
pick them up.’ 

“ ‘ Here, pick them up and read them. ’ 

“He threw the letters on the ground. 

“ I picked them up and read them ; they were indeed 
mine. 

“ It was impossible for me to deny them ; I was at 
the mercy of an outraged brother ! 

“ ‘ Oh, woe to the man,’ I cried, ‘ who is mad enough 
to intrust the secrets of his heart and a woman’s honor 
to paper! it is an arrow shot into the air; we know 
whence it comes, we do not know where it will fall nor 
whom it may strike ! ’ 

“ ‘ Do you recognize those letters, Don Fernand? ’ 

“ ‘ They are in my handwriting, Don Alvar.’ 

“ ‘ Then draw your sword, so that one of us may lie 
here dead beside my sister’s dead honor.’ 

“ ‘ I am grieved that you have taken the matter in this 
way, Don Alvar, and by your threats have made impos- 
sible the proposition that I might have made you.’ 


76 


THE BKIGAND. 


" ‘ Ohj tlie coward ! ’ said Alvar; ‘ to propose to marry 
the woman he has dishonored when he sees her brother 
with his sword in his hand ! ’ 

“ ‘ You know that I am not a coward, Don Alvar; at 
all events, if you do not know it, I will teach you, if 
you insist. So listen to me. ’ 

“‘Draw your sword! When the steel is to speak, 
the tongue should keep silent! ’ 

“‘I love your sister, Don Alvar; your sister loves 
me ; why should I not call you my brother ? ’ 

“ ‘ Because my father told me yesterday that he would 
never call by the name of son a man abandoned to vice 
and debauchery, and overburdened with debts! ’ 

“ My coolness began to abandon me in the face of 
such repeated insults. 

“‘Your father said that, Don Alvar?’ I cried, my 
teeth clenched in wrath. 

‘“ Yes, and I repeat it after him, and I add: Draw 
your sword, Don Fernand ! ’ 

“ ‘ You insist upon it? ’ I replied, putting my hand 
to the hilt of my sword. 

“ ‘ Draw your sword ! draw your sword ! ’ cried Don 
Alvar, ‘ or I will strike you with the flat of mine and 
not with the point! ’ 

“You will agree, Don Inigo, — for I am telling you 
the solemn truth, — you will agree that I had resisted as 
long as a gentleman could do. 

“ I drew my sword. 

“ Five minutes later Don Alvar was dead. 

“Dead without confession, and cursing me with his 
last breath. That is what brought misfortune on me! ” 
The brigand paused a moment, letting his head fall 
forward pensively on his breast. 

At that moment the young gypsy appeared at the win- 


THE NARRATIVE. 


77 


dow through which the brigand had entered; and in 
the breathless voice of the bearer of important news, 
she pronounced the name Fernand three times. 

Not till the second time did the brigand seem to 
hear, and not till the third did he turn. 

But, notwithstanding Ginesta’s evident haste to an- 
nounce the news she brought, the brigand motioned to 
her with his hand to wait, and she waited. 

“I returned to the city,” continued Don Fernand, 
“and, meeting two monks on my way, I told them 
where they would find Don Alvar’s body. 

“ A meeting between two young men followed by a 
death by the sword was a very commonplace matter; but 
our meeting did not take place under the ordinary duel- 
ling conditions. Don Alvar’s father, furious with rage 
at the loss of his only son , accused me of murder. 

“ Alas! I am bound to say that my reputation was a 
poor safeguard; the charge, infamous as it was, found 
credence with the magistrates; the alcalde issued an 
order of arrest against me, and three alguazils appeared 
at my home to take me into custody. 

“ I offered to go to prison alone. They refused. I 
gave them my word as a gentleman that I would walk a 
hundred paces behind them or in front of them, as they 
chose. 

“ They tried to take me by force. 

“ I killed two of them and wounded the third ; I 
leaped on my horse without saddle or bridle, taking but 
one single thing with me, — the key to the house. 

“ I had not seen my mother, and I proposed to return 
and embrace her once more. 

“ Two hours later I was safe in the mountains. 

‘*^The mountains were full of outlaws of all sorts, all 
of whom, being exiled like myself, on account of some 


78 


THE BRIGAND. 


falling-out with the law, had nothing more to expect 
from society, and were burning with the desire to repay 
the wrong that it had done them. 

“ Those men only needed a chief to organize a terrible 
power. 

“ I proposed myself as their chief. They accepted 
me. You know the rest.” 

“ Have you seen your mother since ? ” asked Doha 
Flor. 

“Thanks! ” said the brigand; “you still look upon 
me as a man.” 

The girl lowered her eyes. 

“Yes,” he said; “ I have seen her not once, but ten 
times, twenty times! My mother is the only bond that 
attaches me to the world. Once a month, on no fixed 
day, — for everything depends on the closeness of the 
watch kept upon us, — once a month, at nightfall, I 
leave the mountain, dressed in a mountaineer’s costume, 
and wrapped in a great cloak, I cross the vega unseen 
— or, if seen, unrecognized , thus far at least — and enter 
the house which has never been so dear to me as since 
I have been exiled from it; I open the door of my 
mother’s bedroom, I walk noiselessly to the bed and 
awaken her by kissing her on the forehead. 

“ Then I sit down on the bed and pass the night as in 
the days of my youth, with my hands in hers, my head 
upon her breast. 

“And after passing the night thus, talking of days 
long past, of the time when I was innocent and happy, 
she kisses me on the forehead, and it seems to me that that 
kiss reconciles me with nature, with men, with God ! ” 

“ Oh, father, father! do you hear? ” said Dona Flor, 
wiping away two tears that were rolling down her 
cheeks. 


THE NARRATIVE. 


79 


“Hereafter,” said the old man, “you shall see your 
mother, not at night, not furtively, but in the light of 
day and in the face of all men ; I pledge my honor as a 
gentleman! ” 

“ Oh, you are kind, a hundred times kind, father! ” 
murmured Dona Flor, embracing the old man. 

“Don Fernand! ” exclaimed the young gypsy, in a 
tone of the keenest anxiety, “ what I have to say to you 
is of the utmost importance. Listen to me! in God’s 
name, listen to me! ” 

But as before, only with a more imperious gesture, 
the brigand ordered her to wait. 

“We leave you, senor,” said Don Inigo, “and we 
carry with us the memory of your courtesy.” 

“ Then you forgive me ? ” exclaimed the brigand, 
carried away by his strange feeling of sympathy with 
Don Inigo. 

“ Hot only do we forgive you, but we consider our- 
selves your debtors, and with God’s help I shall be 
able, I trust, to give you a special proof of my 
gratitude. ” 

“ And do you, senora,” the brigand asked in a hesi- 
tating tone, “ share Senor Don Inigo’s sentiments? ” 

“Oh, yes,” cried Dona Flor, eagerly; “and if I too 
could give you a proof — ” 

And she looked about as if to see by what visible 
means, by what palpable proof, she could emphasize her 
gratitude to the young man. 

The brigand understood her purpose; he saw on the 
plate the bouquet Amapola had picked for Don Ramiro. 
He took it and handed it to Dona Flor. 

She consulted her father with a glance , and Don Inigo 
bowed his assent. 

She took a flower from the bouquet. 


80 


THE :BRIGAND. 


It was an anemone, the flower of sadness. 

“My father promised to pay you his ransom,” she 
said ; “ here is mine. ” 

And she offered the flower to the brigand. 

He took it, lifted it respectfully to his lips, then 
placed it in his bosom, and buttoned his doublet 
over it. 

“Farewell until we meet again,” said Don Inigo, 
“ and I venture to promise you, in advance, that it will 
be soon! ” 

“Act as your kind heart bids you, senor, and may 
God in his mercy aid you! ” 

He added, raising his voice, — 

“You are free; go, and whoever does not stand aside 
ten yards from your path is a dead man ! ” 

Don Inigo and his daughter left the house. 

Without leaving his place the brigand watched them, 
through the window looking on the courtyard, mount 
their mules and ride away from the inn. 

Thereupon the young man took the anemone from his 
breast and kissed it a second time with an expression that 
could not be mistaken. 

At that moment he felt that a hand was laid softly on 
his shoulder. 

It was Ginesta, who had climbed in at the window, 
light as a bird, and, Don Inigo and Dona Flor having 
taken their leave, laid claim once more to the atten- 
tion the brigand refused to bestow upon her in their 
•presence. 

She was pale as death. 

“ What do you want of me ? ” the brigand asked. 

“ To tell you that the king’s troops cannot be more 
than a fourth of a league away while I speak, and that 
you will be attacked in ten minutes! ” 


THE NARRATIVE. 


81 


“ Are you sure of what you tell me, Ginesta? queried 
the brigand, knitting his brows. 

The words were hardly out of his mouth when they 
heard the report of a volley of musketry. 

“ Do you hear ? ” said Ginesta. 

“To arms!” cried the brigand, rushing from the 
room ; “ to arms 1 ” 


82 


THE BKIGAHD. 


IX. 

THE OAK OF DONA MERCEDES. 

This is what had happened: — 

Don Inigo had spoken of a detachment of the king^s 
troops whom he had met near Alhama, and whose com- 
mander he knew. 

The brigands had, it will he remembered, replied 
laughingly that the detachment had passed the inn the 
preceding day. 

This detachment, consisting of about four hundred 
men, had orders to scour the mountain and cleanse it at 
any price of the band of brigands who infested it. 

A reward of one hundred gold philips was offered for 
every brigand, dead or alive, who should be accounted 
for to the authorities, and a reward of a thousand gold 
philips for the leader. 

King Don Carlos had sworn that he would destroy 
brigandage in Spain, and drive it back from Sierra to 
Sierra until he drove it into the sea. 

During the two years and a half since he landed in 
Spain he had pursued that purpose with the obstinacy 
that was one of the distinctive characteristics of his 
genius, and had forced the last brigands to bay in the 
Sierra Nevada, which is in close proximity to the sea. 

Thus the fulfilment of his purpose was near at hand. 

The leader of this latest detachment had contented 
himself with exploring the road; he had found nothing 
unusual except an inn, at whose door his detachment 


THE OAK OF DONA MERCEDES. 


83 


had halted and refreshed themselves; hut the inn had 
no other occupants than the host and the usual fre- 
quenters of an Andalusian hostelry. The host’s counte- 
nance was more open, his manner more courteous and 
engaging, than those of most Spanish landlords; there 
was nothing about the inn to point to it as a rendezvous 
for brigands; the commanding officer had ordered his 
detachment to resume their march, and they had 
passed on. 

They went as far as Albania without discovering any- 
thing worthy of note except the crosses more or less 
thickly planted by the roadsides; but crosses are so 
common in Spain that the soldiers paid but slight 
attention to them. 

At Alhama the officer commanding the detachment 
had made inquiries and had been warned to concentrate 
all his attention on the inn of the Moorish King, which 
was described to him as the centre of operations and the 
lair of the brigands. The result was that the officer, 
without loss of time, had started to retrace his steps, 
and had ordered his men to follow him. 

It was six leagues from Alhama to the Moorish King, 
and the troops had already covered half that distance 
when they saw coming toward them, at the mad pace of 
despair, Don Inigo’s servant, wounded and covered with ,, 
blood, and calling loudly for help. He told the officer 
what had happened. 

As Don Inigo had said , the officer was a gentleman of 
his acquaintance. When he learned of the dangerous 
plight of the illustrious hidalgo and the lovely Dona 
Flor, his daughter, he ordered the detachment to march 
forward at the double quick. 

From the top of the cliff, where she had remained, 
Ginesta had seen in the distance the head of the column ; 


84 


THE BRIGAND. 


suspecting the motive of the return of the troops, trem- 
bling for the safety of the brigand, she had hurried to 
the inn , entered by the garden gate , — the same through 
which Don Fernand had passed, — arrived at the win- 
dow he had broken and leaped through, and there, held 
in check by the gesture which bade her wait, she had 
seen what had taken place between Don Fernand and 
the prisoners, particularly between him and Dona Flor. 

Pale as death, and with death in her heart, Ginesta 
had, in her turn, climbed through the window, and 
announced to the brigand the coming of the king’s 
troops. 

The brigand rushed from the room, shouting , “ To 
arms! ” 

He expected to find his companions in the kitchen; 
the kitchen was empty. 

He rushed into the courtyard; there was no one in 
the courtyard. 

In two bounds he was at the gateway of the inn. 
There he found an arquebus on the ground, and beside 
the arquebus one of those sixteenth-century baldrics to 
which cartridges were attached all ready for use. 

He picked up the arquebus, passed the baldric about 
his neck, and, standing erect once more, looked around 
in search of his companions. 

The fusillade they had heard had instantly died away, 
— a proof that they at whom it was directed had offered 
but a slight resistance. 

Suddenly the brigand saw the advance guard of the 
royal troops appear on the crest of the little hill. 

He turned to see if he was entirely abandoned. 

Ginesta alone was behind him, deathly pale and with 
clasped hands. With the eloquent pantomime of terror 
she implored him to fly. 


THE OAK OF DONA MERCEDES. 85 

“ I must do it,” muttered the brigand, “ as the villains 
have deserted me.” 

“Perhaps they will join you in the mountains,” sug- 
gested Ginesta, timidly, drawing him back. 

That suggestion restored Fernand’s hopes. 

“ It is quite possible,” he said. 

And, returning to the courtyard, he closed the heavy 
gate behind him, and put the iron bar in place. 

Then, still followed by Ginesta, he entered the 
kitchen, passed from the kitchen into a sort of little 
pantry , raised a trap-door which he let fall behind him 
when the gypsy had passed through, secured the trap 
with a bolt, and with no other light than that of the 
match of his arquebus, descended the stairway and 
entered the subterranean passage that began at its foot. 

It was the passage to which the brigands had alluded 
when they were enlightening Don Inigo as to their 
means of defence and flight. 

After about five minutes Don Fernand and the gypsy 
reached the other end of the passage. Fernand lifted 
with his strong shoulders a second trap-door, concealed 
on the outside by a flat rock and covered with moss. 

The fugitives were in the mountains. 

The brigand drew a long breath of relief. 

“ Ah! ” he said, “ here we are free! ” 

“ Yes,” replied Ginesta, “but let us waste no time.” 

“ Where do you mean to go ? ” 

“ To the oak of Dona Mercedes. ” 

Fernand started. 

“Very good,” he said; “perhaps the Virgin under 
whose protection it has been placed will bring me good 
luck.” 

Both of them, or rather all three, — for the goat had 
followed the fugitives, — at once plunged into the under- 


86 


THE BRIGAND. 


brush, taking care to follow no other paths than those 
made by wild beasts, which were so numerous, however, 
and so well beaten, that they were veritable roads. 

But in those roads they had to walk, like the animals 
who frequented them, with the head close to the ground; 
in some places, indeed, where the branches were joined 
together overhead, they had actually to crawl; but the 
more difficult the passage, the greater the security 
afforded by the natural fortress in which the brigand 
and the gypsy had taken refuge. 

They walked in this way three-quarters of an hour; 
but we must not measure the distance travelled by the 
time that had elapsed: the difficulty of the road made 
their progress slow, and after three-quarters of an hour 
the fugitives had made barely half a league. But it 
would have taken any others than themselves — that is 
to say, men unfamiliar with the mountain, with the 
paths of deer and bears and wild boars — a whole day to 
make that half a league. 

The farther they advanced, the more impenetrable 
the underbrush became, and yet neither Fernand nor 
Ginesta showed the slightest sign of hesitation. One 
could see that they were both headed toward a known 
goal, no more lost among those mastics, strawberry-trees, 
and gigantic myrtles than the sailor wandering over the 
boundless ocean, where he has the compass and the 
constellations to guide him. 

At last, after ploughing their way through one last 
line of yoke-elms, which seemed impenetrable to the 
eye, they found themselves in a small clearing some 
twenty feet in diameter, in the centre of which rose -an 
oak, in whose trunk a little statuette of St. Mercedes, 
the patron saint of Fernand’s mother, was set in a shrine 
of gilded wood. 


THE OAK OF DONA MERCEDES. 


87 


Fernand had placed this tree, in whose shade he often 
mused and slept, and which he called his summer house, 
under the protection of his mother’s patron saint, or 
rather under the protection of his mother herself, whom 
he adored and respected much more than the saint whose 
name she bore. 

The two fugitives had reached the end of their jour- 
ney, and it was evident that, unless betrayed, they were 
perfectly safe for the moment. 

We say unless betrayed ^ because the brigands knew 
of this retreat of their leader, although they never came 
there unless they were summoned ; it was a sort of place 
of refuge whither Fernand, in his hours of melancholy, 
came to recall the vanished world of the past, and, as 
he lay wrapped in his cloak, trying to distinguish 
through the motionless leaves of the oak a fragment of 
the sky that stretched away above his head, blue as the 
wings of Hope, to evoke the pleasant memories of his 
childhood, which formed such a striking contrast to those 
ghastly memories of deeds of violence and of blood 
which, as a young man, he was storing up for his old 
age. 

When he had any orders to issue, any information to 
receive, he took from the hollow in the tree a silver 
horn, beautifully wrought by some Moorish workman, 
and blew one long shrill note upon it if he desired the 
presence of only one of his comrades; two, if he needed 
ten men; three, if he wished to summon the whole 
band. 

His first care, on entering the clearing, was to go 
straight to the shrine of the saint and kiss her feet; 
then he knelt and said a short prayer, while Ginesta, 
still half a heathen, stood and watched him; then he 
rose and made the circuit of a part of the trunk of the 


88 


THE BKIGAND. 


tree, took from the hole already mentioned the silver 
horn, and, putting it to his lips, blew three notes as 
shrill, as piercing, and as prolonged as those which, 
from a point five leagues away from the vale of Ronce- 
vaux, startled Charlemagne in the midst of his army, 
when, stopping suddenly, he said, “ Messeigneurs , ’t is 
my nephew Roland calling for help! ” 

But the notes rang out, grew fainter, and died to no 
purpose : no one came. 

It is not to be supposed that the brigands did not 
hear; the echoes of Fernand’s horn extended a league 
into the mountains. 

Either the brigands were taken, or they had betrayed 
their chief, or realizing that resistance was useless, in 
view of the number of their assailants, they had deemed 
it more prudent to remain scattered, and had fled in 
different directions. 

For about a quarter of an hour Fernand, leaning 
against the trunk of the tree, awaited an answer to his 
call; but, seeing that the prevailing silence remained 
unbroken, he spread his cloak on the ground and lay 
down upon it. 

Ginesta sat beside him. 

Fernand looked up at her with infinite tenderness; 
the little gypsy alone had remained faithful to him. 

Ginesta smiled softly. 

There was a promise of undying devotion in that 
smile. 

Fernand put out his arms, took the girl’s head in his 
hands, and put his lips to her forehead. 

The moment that the brigand’s lips and Ginesta’s 
brow came in contact, the girl uttered a cry in which 
there was almost as much pain as pleasure. 

It was the first caress she had ever received from him. 


THE OAK OF DONA MEECEDES. 


89 


She sat for some moments with her eyes closed, her 
head resting against the gnarled trunk of the oak, her 
mouth open, and her breast without respiration, as if 
she had fainted. 

The young man gazed at her, at first in astonishment, 
then in anxiety; at last he said softly, — 

“ Ginesta! ” 

The gypsy raised her head like a child aroused from 
sleep by its‘ mother’s voice, slowly opened her lovely 
eyes, and murmured as she met the brigand’s gaze, — 

“0 my God!” 

“What happened to you, my child?” queried 
Fernand. 

“I do not know,” she replied. “Only I thought I 
was dying — ” 

She rose unsteadily to her feet, walked slowly away 
from Dona Mercedes’s oak, and disappeared in the under- 
brush, holding her head in her hands, and all ready to 
burst into tears, although she had never known such a 
sensation of joy and happiness. 

The brigand looked after her until she had disap- 
peared ; but, as the goat remained with him instead of 
following her mistress, he concluded that she had not 
gone very far. 

Thereupon he heaved a sigh, wrapped himself in his 
cloak, and lay down with his eyes closed as if he wished 
to sleep. 

After about an hour of sleep or revery, he heard his 
name called in a soft but urgent tone. 

The gypsy was standing before him in the gathering 
dusk, with her arm extended toward the west. 

“ Well,” said Fernand, “ what is it? ” 

“ Look I ” said the gypsy. 

“ Oho ! ” said the brigand , springing quickly to his 


90 


THE BRIGAND. 


feet, the sun is setting very red to-night. That means 
bloodshed to-morrow. ” 

“You are mistaken,” rejoined Ginestaj “those are 
not the beams of the setting sun.” 

“What are they, then? ” asked Fernand, detecting a 
smell of smoke and a faint crackling sound. 

“ They are the reflection of a conflagration,” the gypsy 
replied. “ The mountain is on fire! ” 

At that moment a frightened stag, followed by a hind 
and a fawn, passed like a flash, flying from west to 
east. 

“Come, Fernand!” said Ginesta; “the instinct of 
those animals is surer than the wisdom of man, and, 
while they show us in what direction we must fly, they 
tell us that there is not a moment to lose. ” 

Doubtless that was also Fernand’s opinion; for, 
throwing his horn around his neck, wrapping himself 
in his cloak, and taking his arquebus in his hand, he 
hurried away in the direction taken by the stag, the 
hind, and the fawn. 

Ginesta and her goat walked in front of him. 


THE FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN. 


91 


X. 

THE FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN. 

The brigand, the gypsy, and the goat had gone some 
five hundred yards in that direction, when the goat sud- 
denly stopped, stood upon her hind legs, sniffed the air, 
and seemed undecided. 

“ Well, Maza, what is it? ” the girl asked. 

The goat shook her head as if she had understood, 
and bleated as if she would have liked to reply. 

The brigand listened and inhaled the night air, which 
was laden with resinous odors. 

The darkness was as dense as it can be in Spain on a 
beautiful summer evening. 

“ It seems to me,” said the brigand, “ that I hear the 
same crackling and smell the same smell of smoke. 
Can we have made a mistake and be going to meet the 
fire instead of running away from it? ” 

“The fire was there,” said Ginesta, pointing to the 
west, “ and we have run in as straight a line as could be 
drawn. ” ’ ' 

“ You are sure ? ” 

“ There is Aldebaran, which was, and still is, at our 
right; the fire must have caught at two different places 
on the mountain.” 

“ Caught or been set,” muttered Ternand, beginning 
to suspect the truth. 

“ Wait,” said Ginesta; “I will tell you.” 

And the child of the mountain, to whom the moun- 
tain, with its peaks, its gorges, its underbrush, its 
valleys, and its caverns, was as familiar as the park 


92 


THE BRIGAND. 


belonging to the chateau where he was born is to a 
child, sprang forward to the base of an almost perpen- 
dicular cliff, climbed it by clinging to the excrescences 
of the rock, and soon stood upon its summit like a 
statue on its pedestal. 

She required but five seconds for the ascent; she 
required but one for the descent. 

“ Well? ” queried the brigand. 

“ Yes,” she said. 

“ Fire?” 

“Fire! Come this way,” she added, pointing to the 
south ; “ we must succeed in passing through the gap 
before the ends of the two fires meet.” 

The farther they went toward the south, the wilder 
and denser the vegetation became; there were the high 
bramble-bushes, the ordinary haunt of boars, wolves, 
and wildcats; the weaker animals, like deer and kids, 
rarely ventured upon the territory of their terrible foes, 
and yet now those animals flew by them in herds, like 
flashes of dun-colored lightning, flying in terror from 
the fire in the direction which promised them means of 
escape. 

“This way! this way!” cried Ginesta; “have no 
fear, Fernand; there is our guide.” 

And she pointed to the tricolored star by which she 
directed her course. 

“ So long as it is at our left, as it was just now at our 
right,” continued the gypsy, “we shall be on the right 
road. ” 

After they had gone on so for some ten minutes, the 
star disappeared. 

“ Oho! ” said Fernand, “ are we going to have a storm ? 
It would be a fine sight, — a struggle between fire and 
water in the mountain ! ” 


THE FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN. 


93 


But Ginesta had stopped; grasping Fernand’s wrist, 
she said, — 

“ It is no cloud that has hidden the star.” 

“ What is it, then ? ” 

“Smoke!” 

“ Impossible! the wind is from the south.” 

At that moment a snarling wolf, with fire flashing 
from his eyes, passed within a few paces of the young 
people, paying no attention to the goat, and running 
toward the north. 

Nor did the goat pay any attention to the wolf; she 
seemed engrossed by another danger. 

“The fire! the fire! ” cried Ginesta. “We are too 
late ; we have a wall of fire before us ! ” 

“ Wait,” said Fernand; “ we will soon see.” 

And he seized the lower branches of a fir and beg'an 
to climb into the tree. 

But his foot had hardly left the earth when a terrible 
growl was heard over his head. 

Ginesta pulled the young man back in terror, and 
pointed to a dark mass outlined against the sky, about 
fifteen feet from the ground, in the branches of the 
tree. 

“Oh, it’s of no use for you to growl, old bear of 
IMulahacen,” said Fernand; “ you won’t drive back the 
fire, and you wouldn’t drive me back either if I had 
the time — ” 

“ To the north ! to the north ! ” cried Ginesta ; “ that 
is the only passage that is still open.” 

Indeed, all the dwellers of the mountain — stags, 
hinds, kids, boars, wildcats — were rushing madly in the 
only direction in which the flames had not yet appeared. 
Flocks of Guinea fowl and partridges flew at random 
before the fire, colliding with the branches and falling 


94 


THE BRIGAND. 


stunned at the feet of the fugitives; while the birds of 
night, kings of the darkness, saluted with hoarse cries 
of terror the strange daylight that seemed to rise from 
the earth instead of descending from heaven. 

“ Come, Fernand ! come, come ! ” cried Ginesta. 

“ Where? In which direction ? ” asked Fernand, be- 
ginning to he really terrified, less for himself, perhaps, 
than for the girl, who, by clinging to him, shared a 
danger which she might have avoided by remaining at 
the inn. 

“This way! this way! there ^s the north star in 
front of us. Let us follow the goat; her instinct will 
guide us.” 

And they began to run in the direction indicated not 
only by the domestic animal who was the companion of 
their flight, but by the wild beasts as well, who rushed 
by as if driven by the burning breath of the sirocco. 

Suddenly the goat stopped. 

“ It is useless to fly farther,” said Fernand; “ we are 
in a circle of flame. ” 

And he seated himself on a rock as if determined to 
make no further effort. 

The girl went on a hundred paces to make sure if 
Fernand had judged aright; then, as the goat at first 
lagged behind, and finally stopped altogether, she retraced 
her steps, and returned to Fernand, who was sitting wdth 
his head in his hands, apparently resolved to await the 
terrible catastrophe without taking another step. 

Indeed, there was no longer any possibility of doubt; 
for a league around, the sky gleamed blood-red through 
a cloud of smoke. 

They could hear an ominous hissing sound, which 
rapidly approached, indicating the progress of the 
conflagration. 


THE FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN. 


95 


The girl stood for a moment beside the brigand, 
enveloping him in a gaze overflowing with love. 

Whoever could have read her mind would perhaps 
have found there the fear that such a desperate situation 
was calculated to inspire, but with it a secret longing to 
throw her arms around the young man and die with him 
there, on that spot, without the shadow of an effort to 
save themselves. 

However, she seemed to overcome the temptation. 

“ Fernand !” she murmured with a sigh. 

The brigand raised his head. 

“Poor Ginesta,” he said, “so young, so lovely, so 
good, and I shall be the cause of your death! Ah! 
I am accursed in very truth! ” 

“Do you want to live, Fernand? ” the child asked, 
in a tone that signified, “ For my part, I do not.” 

“Oh, yes, yes! ” cried the young man; “oh, yes, I 
do want to live , I confess. ” 

“ For whose sake ? ” queried Ginesta.' 

Not till then, perhaps, did he read what was taking 
place in Ginesta’s heart. 

“ For my mother’s,” he replied. 

The child uttered a joyful exclamation. 

“ Thanks, Fernand! ” she said; “ follow me.” 

“ Follow you ! What for ? ” 

“ Follow me, I tell you! ” 

“ Why , don’t you see that we are lost ? ” said Fernand, 
shrugging his shoulders. 

“We are saved, Fernand! I will answer for every- 
thing,” replied the gypsy. 

Fernand rose, doubting if he had heard aright. 

“ Come ! come ! ” said she ; “ as you regret no one but 
your mother, I do not choose that your mother shall 
weep for you.” 


96 


THE BRIGAND. 


Seizing the young man’s hand, she led him away in 
another direction. 

The young man followed her mechanically, but with 
the instinctive ardor that every created being puts forth 
for the preservation of his life. 

One would have said that even the goat recovered her 
courage when she saw the fugitives start off in their 
new direction, and consented to act as their guide once 
more, while the other terrified animals, finding that 
they were hemmed in by a circle of fire, no longer fol- 
lowed any definite course, but ran hither and thither in 
every conceivable direction. 

The hissing of the fire came nearer and nearer, and 
the atmosphere they breathed began to be burning hot. 

Suddenly the hissing of the flames seemed to increase 
in force, and to become more intense with every step 
the fugitives took in the direction ihey were following, 

Fernand called to the girl to stop. 

“ Why, the fire is ahead of us! Don’t you hear it? ” 
he cried, pointing in the direction from which the sound 
came. 

“ Can it be, Fernand,” said the gypsy, with a laugh, 
“ that you are still so little used to the noises of the 
mountain that you mistake the roar of a waterfall for 
the hissing of a fire ? ” 

“Oho!” said Fernand, starting on again, “yes, of 
course, you are right; we can escape the fire by follow- 
ing the bed of the stream and pass between two curtains 
of flame, as the Israelites, by the protection of the Lord, 
passed between two walls of water. But don’t you be- 
lieve that the banks of the stream are guarded ? ” 

“ Come, come,” the girl insisted; “ did I not say that 
I would answer for everything ? ” 

And she dragged Fernand toward the plateau, from 


THE FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN. 


97 


which the sturdy waterfall, a transparent scarf tossed 
against the side of the mountain, by day like a rain- 
bow, by night like a moonbeam, plunged downward, 
and after rebounding, twenty -five feet below, upon a jut- 
ting rock on which its liquid mass broke with a noise 
like thunder, continued its downward course in the form 
of spray into an abyss some three or four hundred feet 
deep, hollowing out a bed for itself at the bottom, where 
it formed a mountain torrent, and rushed on, roaring 
fiercely, to empty into the Xenil, three leagues away, 
between Armilla and Santa Fe. 

In a few moments more the fugitives reached the 
plateau from which the cascade plunged into the abyss. 

Ginesta would have begun the formidable descent on 
the instant; but Fernand stopped her. Although his 
mind was hardly at rest concerning his own life and his 
companion’s, he could not, being a poet before every, 
thing, resist the desire to measure the full extent of the 
peril he had escaped. 

Certain hearts derive a ghastly pleasure from emotion 
of that sort. 

Moreover, it must be admitted that the spectacle was 
a magnificent one. The circle of flame had at the same 
time drawn closer at the centre and expanded at the 
circumference. An immense ribbon of fire, growing 
constantly broader, enveloped the mountain and rapidly 
approached the fugitives. 

From time to time the flames seized upon a tall pine, 
twisted like a serpent around its trunk, ran along its 
branches, and illuminated it like one of the yew-trees 
provided 'for royal f^tes. For a moment the flames shot 
up with a mighty crackling; then, suddenly, the fiery 
giant gave way at its base and fell headlong into the vast 
sea of flame, sending an eruption of sparks up to heaven. 

7 


98 


THE BRIGAND. 


At another time the flames reached a line of resinous 
mastics, and ran as swiftly as a train of powder, pierc- 
ing with a lance of flame the dark green carpet that 
swathed the sides of the mountain. 

Again, a rock all laden with burning cork-trees fell 
from some elevation where the earth, dried by the in- 
tense heat of the flames, no longer had the strength to 
hold it, and rolled over and over like a cascade of fire to 
the bottom of some gorge, where it stopped, instantly 
kindling a new fire about it. 

The young man stood for a moment in ecstasy before 
that sea of lava which was rapidly eating away with its 
fiery teeth the isle of verdure, from whose highest point 
he watched the progress of the raging tide which would 
have devoured him bodily within half an hour. 

From the portion that was still untouched came cries 
of every sort, — the braying of stags, the howling of 
wolves, the mewing of wildcats, the growling of hoars, 
the yelping of foxes; and, if it had been daylight, they 
would certainly have seen all those animals, with no 
indications of hatred for one another, engrossed solely 
by the danger that caused their assembling in that nar- 
row space, tearing madly through the underbrush, over 
which a hot, floating vapor was already hovering, the 
precursor of the flames. 

But as if she were more alarmed for Fernand than 
Fernand for her, Ginesta, after waiting a moment, 
aroused the young man from his dazed contemplation, 
and, recalling him to a sense of his position, gave him 
to understand what still remained to be done by leading 
the way into the phasm, motioning to him to follow 
her. 


THE dove’s nest. 


99 


XI. 

THE dove’s nest. 

The descent, which seemed familiar to Ginesta, was 
dangerous for Fernand, and would have been impossible 
for anybody else. 

A white mist rolling along the side of the mountain 
before a gentle breeze would have been no lighter or 
more graceful than the young gypsy as she placed her 
foot on the hardly perceptible jutting points of the 
almost perpendicular cliff. 

Luckily tufts of myrtle, mastic, and arbutus grew here 
and there in the clefts of the granite, and served at need 
as points of support for Fernand’s feet, while his fingers 
clung to the creepers that crawled along the face of the 
wall like gigantic centipedes. 

There were moments when even the goat seemed at a 
loss, and halted, hesitating; at such times Ginesta, no 
one could guess how, passed her and showed her the 
road, so to speak. 

From time to time she turned, encouraging Fernand 
with her gestures; for the voice was useless, amid 
the uproar caused by the roar of the cataract, the hiss- 
ing of the flames, and the desperate yells of the wild 
beasts, driven closer and closer together by the narrow- 
ing circle of the conflagration. 

More than once the girl paused, trembling to see 
Fernand suspended over the abyss, where you would 
have said that she was upheld by the wings of a bird; 


100 


THE BRIGAND. 


more than once she held out her hand to him; more 
than once she reascended a step or two, as if to offer 
him the support of her arm. 

But he, ashamed to he outdone by a girl, who seemed 
to look upon an enterprise in which they were in peril 
of their lives not once only, but twenty times, as mere 
play, summoning all his strength, all his courage, all 
his self-possession, followed the goat and her mistress 
down the wild descent. 

About twenty-five feet from the top, at the point 
where the falling water broke upon the rock, the gypsy 
ceased to descend vertically, taking a diagonal course 
and approaching the cascade, which she had avoided 
at first as a matter of precaution, for the spray that 
escaped from the falling stream made the stones in 
its neighborhood more slippery, and therefore more 
dangerous. 

The fire shed such a brilliant glare, however, that it 
lighted up the steep path almost as brightly as the sun- 
light would have done. 

But it might well be that the light, instead of les- 
sening the danger, made it even greater by making it 
visible. 

Fernand was beginning to understand Ginesta’s pro- 
ject; ere long he had no doubt whatever concerning it. 

The goat, in two or three bounds, had reached the 
rock on whose extreme projecting point the cataract 
broke; the gypsy arrived there almost at the same 
moment, and turned at once to assist Fernand, if neces- 
sary, to join her there. 

Leaning thus toward the young man, and holding out 
her hand to him, framed on one side by the dark surface 
of the cliff, on the other by the curve of the cataract, 
which, in the glare of the fire, resembled the diamond 


THE dove’s nest. 


101 


arch of a bridge from earth to heaven, she seemed the 
very genius of the mountain , the fairy of the torrent. 

Not without difficulty did Fernand pass over the space 
that separated him from her, short as it was. The 
gypsy’s bare foot clung to all the protuberances on which 
the mountaineer’s shoes slipped. Just as he was on 
the point of reaching 'the shelf of granite, the daring 
young man’s footing failed him; and it would have been 
all over with him had not Ginesta, with a strength of 
which one would have believed the slender creature 
incapable, seized his cloak and held him a moment over 
the abyss until he had time to recover his balance. 

Having regained his footing, with a single spring he 
stood beside the girl and her goat. 

But, once he was safe upon the rock, Fernand’s 
strength gave way; his legs wavered, his forehead was 
wet with perspiration, and he would have fallen had he 
not found the gypsy’s trembling shoulder under his arm, 
ready to support him. 

He closed his eyes for a moment to give the demon of 
vertigo time to fly away. 

When he reopened them he started back, dazzled by 
the magnificent spectacle before his eyes. 

Through the sheet of falling water, clear and trans- 
parent as crystal, he saw the roaring flames; it was like 
an hallucination produced by magic. 

“Oh!” he cried, almost in spite of himself, “oh, 
look, Ginesta! how grand it is! how beautiful! how 
sublime ! ” 

Like the eagle that hovers about ^tna, the poet’s 
soul flapped its wings above that mountain transformed 
into a volcano. 

Feeling that Fernand had no further need of her, 
Ginesta gently released herself from the young man’s 


102 


THE BRIGAND. 


convulsive embrace; and, leaving him absorbed in his 
contemplation, she vanished in the depths of the grotto, 
which was soon lighted by the pale gleam of a lamp, 
making a pleasant contrast to the blood-red glare cast 
by the burning mountain. 

Fernand had passed from contemplation to reflection. 
There was no longer any doubt in his mind : the burning 
of the forest was not an accident; it was a plan devised 
by the officers of the detachment that had been sent 
against him. 

The three notes he had blown on the silver horn to 
summon his comrades had informed the troops employed 
to hunt the brigands in what part of the mountains 
their leader was. Two hundred or more soldiers had 
set out, each with a lighted torch in his hand ; they had 
formed a huge circle, and each had thrown his torch 
into some thicket of resinous shrubs or some clearing 
covered with dense grass, and the fire had spread with a 
rapidity easily explained by the combustible nature of 
the material and the intense heat of the preceding 
days. 

Only a miracle could have saved Fernand. That 
miracle was performed by Ginesta’s devotion. 

He turned about in an impulse of gratitude ; for not 
until the last few moments had he taken account of all 
that he owed the girl. 

Then it was that he saw with profound amazement a 
grotto whose existence he, the man of the mountain, 
had never even suspected, lighted by the pale light we 
have described. 

He approached it slowly ; and as he approached, his 
amazement redoubled. 

Through a narrow opening leading from the rock into 
the grotto, he saw the young gypsy raising a flat stone 


THE dove’s nest. 


103 


in the floor, and taking from a little hole a ring which 
she placed on her finger, and a parchment which she 
concealed in her bosom. 

The grotto was hollowed out of the mountain; cer- 
tain portions of the "walls were of granite, like the shelf 
on which Fernand stood; other portions were of earth, 
or rather, of the dry, crumbling sand which you find 
everywhere in Spain as soon as the thin upper layer of 
loam is removed. 

A bed of moss covered with fresh heather was arranged 
in a corner of the grotto; over the bed, in an oaken 
frame, was a coarse painting, probably dating back to 
the thirteenth century, and representing one of the 
black-faced Madonnas which Catholic traditions delight 
to attribute to the brush of St. Luke. 

Facing the bed were two other paintings of a more 
advanced, but perhaps less pure style than the first; they 
were in gilt frames, the gilding of which was, however, 
somewhat the worse for wear. These paintings repre- 
sented a man and a woman, each wearing a crown, and 
above the crown a title, a name and a surname. 

The woman , who was dressed in strange fashion, — at 
least so far as one could judge from the little that could 
be seen of her figure, — and wore a crown as fanciful as 
that of an Oriental queen, had the swarthy complexion 
of the daughters of the South. At the first glance, 
anybody who knew Ginesta would, have thought of the 
young gypsy, and if the beautiful child had been present, 
would naturally have turned to look at her; for upon 
comparing the painter’s work with the work of God, 
a striking resemblance between the two was apparent, 
although it was plain that Ginesta had not yet reached 
the age at which the original of the painting had posed 
for the artist. 


104 


THE BRIGAND. 


Above the crown were these words, — 

La Keyna Topacia la Hermosa. 

Which may he literally translated thus, — 

Queen Topaz the Beautiful. 

The man, dressed in a magnificent costume, wore the 
royal crown over a black velvet cap; his long fair hair, 
cut square at the ends, fell on either side of his face; 
his pink and white complexion, contrasting strangely 
with that of the woman, at whom his blue eyes seemed 
to be gazing amorously, betrayed the man of the North; 
he was, however, as notable an instance of his type of 
beauty as the woman was of hers. Both well deserved 
the flattering epithet attached to their names, which was 
the same in both cases, varying in gender only, — 

El Bey Felipe el Hermoso. 

Which signified, — 

King Philip the Fair. 

The young man embraced all these objects at a glance; 
but his eyes, after wandering from the bed of moss to the 
Madonna, rested more particularly on the two portraits. 

The girl had felt rather than heard his approach ; she 
turned just at the moment when, as we have said, she 
placed the ring on her finger and concealed the parch- 
ment in her breast. 

Then, with a smile worthy of a princess proffering 
hospitality in a palace, she said in her figurative 
language, — 

“Come in, Fernand, and transform the dove’s nest 
into an eagle’s eyry! ” 

“But will not the dove first tell me what nest it is ? ” 
asked Fernand. 


THE dove’s nest. 


105 


“That in which I was born,” replied Ginesta; “in 
which I was nursed and reared; that to which I return 
to laugh or weep when I am happy or when I suffer. 
Do you not know that every created being has an 
infinite love for its cradle ? ” 

“ Indeed I know it, — I who risk my life every month 
to pass an hour with my mother in the room in which I 
was horn ! ” 

And the young man entered the grotto. 

“ As Ginesta consented to reply to my first question, ” 
he said, “ perhaps she will consent to reply to a second.” 
“ Ask it,” said the gypsy, “ and I will answer.” 

“ Who are those two portraits 1 ” 

“ I thought that Fernand was a child of the city ; am 
I mistaken ? ” 

“ Why mistaken ? ” 

“ Does not Fernand know how to read ? ” 

“ Indeed, yes.” 

“ Then let him read ! ” 

She raised the lamp and cast its flickering light upon 
the pictures. 

“ Well, I have read,” said Fernand. 

“ What have you read 1 ” 

“ Queen Topaz the Beautiful,” 

“ Well ? ” 

“ I know no queen of that name.” 

“ Not even among the zingari ? ” 

“ To he sure,” said Fernand. “ I forgot, the gypsies 
have kings.” 

“ And queens,” said Ginesta. 

“ But how does it happen that the portrait resembles 
you? ” queried the brigand. 

“ Because it is a portrait of my mother,” the young 
girl replied. 


106 


THE BEIGAND. 


Fernand compared the two faces, and was more deeply 
impressed by the resemblance we have mentioned. 

“ And the other portrait ? ” he asked. 

“ Do as you did with the first, — read.” 

“ Very well , I read, and I see : King Philip the Fair . ” 

“ Were you also ignorant that there was once a king 
of Spain called Philip the Fair ? ” 

“ No, child, for I have seen him.” 

“ And so have I.” 

“ When you were very young, then? ” 

“ Yes; but there are memories which sink so deep in 
the heart that we retain them all our lives, whatever 
the age at which we may have received them.” 

“True,” said Fernand with a sigh; “I know those 
memories! But why do the two portraits hang side by 
side ? ” 

Ginesta smiled. 

“ Are they not portraits of a king and a queen ? ” she 
said. 

“ To be sure ; but — ” 

He stopped, feeling that he was about to wound the 
girl’s pride. 

She continued, still smiling, — 

“ But one, you were going to say, was king of a real 
kingdom, while the other was queen of an imaginary 
kingdom.” 

“ I confess that that was my thought, dear Ginesta.” 

“ In the first place, who says that the kingdom of 
Egypt is an imaginary kingdom? Who says that she 
who is descended from the lovely Nicaulis, Queen of 
Sheba, is not as truly a queen as he is a king who 
descends from Maximilian, Emperor of Austria?” 

“ But, after all,” queried Fernand, “ what has Philip 
the Fair — ” 


THE dove’s nest. 


107 


Ginesta interrupted him. 

“ Philip the Fair,” she said, “ was the father of King 
Don Carlos, who is to be at Granada to-morrow. I 
have no time to lose, therefore, if I wish to sue to King 
Don Carlos for what he will perhaps refuse Don Inigo. ” 

“ What! ” cried Fernand, “ you are going to Granada ? ” 

“ I start at once. Wait for me here.” 

“ You are mad, Ginesta! ” 

“ In this recess you will find bread and dates. I 
shall have returned before your supplies are exhausted, 
and you will he in no want of water, you see. ” 

“ Ginesta, I will not allow you, for me — ” 

“Take care, Fernand! if you do not let me start at 
once, perhaps the fire may not permit me to reach the 
bed of the torrent.” 

“But they who are pursuing me, they who have sur- 
rounded this mountain, in which they knew that I had 
taken refuge, with a circle of flame, will not permit you 
to pass; they will maltreat you, perhaps kill you! ” 

“ What do you suppose they will say to a poor girl 
who was surprised by the fire in the mountain, and is 
making her escape with her goat by following the bed 
of the mountain stream ? ” 

“ True, Ginesta, you are right,” cried Fernand; “ and 
if you are taken, it is much better that it should be far 
away from me than with me.” 

“ Fernand,” said the girl, ip. a deep, grave voice, “if I 
were not sure of saving you, I would remain here to die 
with you ; hut I am sure of saving you, and I go. Come, 
Maza ! ” 

And without awaiting Fernand’s reply, she waved 
her hand to him in farewell, leaped from the rock to 
the mountain side, and, lightly as a snowflake, with a 
foot as sure as that of the climbing beast that accom- 


108 


THE BRIGAND. 


panied her, she descended into the abyss whose genius 
she seemed to he. 

Fernand, leaning over the precipice, followed her 
anxiously with his eyes until she had reached the bed 
of the stream, where she leaped from stone to stone like 
a wagtail, and soon disappeared between the two walls 
of flame that rose from its banks. 


KING DON CAKLOS. 


109 


XII. 

KING DON CARLOS. 

Let us leave Eernand resting quietly between the 
danger he has escaped and the perhaps greater danger 
by which he is threatened, and, taking the same road 
with Ginesta, glide with her down the flaming slope of 
the mountain to the stream whose bed she followed and 
in whose windings she disappeared. 

The stream, as we have said, was some three or four 
leagues in length, and emptied into the Xenil between 
Armilla and Santa Fe, having meanwhile become a 
small river. 

We will not follow it to that point, however, but 
will leave it where Ginesta probably left it, at the point 
where, about a league from Armilla, it crosses, under a 
stone bridge, a road which is no other than the high- 
road from Granada to Malaga. 

Having reached that point, we no longer have to fear 
that we shall lose our way: the road, which deserved 
the name of road from Malaga to Casabermeja, but be- 
came a mere path, and a path sometimes hardly visible 
when it crossed the Sierra, broadened again at the foot 
of the western slope, and became a road once more from 
Gravia la Grande. 

A casual glance will show you that there is a great 
fete at Granada: its thousand towers are surmounted 
by the banners of Castile and Arragon, Spain and 
Austria; its seventy thousand houses are in holiday 


110 


THE BRIGAND. 


attire, and its three hundred and fifty thousand people 

— in the twenty -seven years since it passed from the 
hands of the Moorish to those of the Christian kings, it 
has lost nearly fifty thousand — and its three hundred 
and fifty thousand people are massed in the streets lead- 
ing from the Jaen gate, through which King Don Carlos 
is to make his entree, to the gateway of the Alhambra 
Palace, where quarters have been prepared for him in 
the apartments that King Boahdil left so regretfully a 
quarter of a century before. 

So it happens that upon the shaded bank that leads, 
up a gentle slope, to the summit of the Mountain of 
the SuUy where the fortress stands, and where rises the 
Alhambra, that palace built by the wizards of the 
Orient, the throng is so great that it is with difficulty 
held in check by a line of halberdiers, who are com- 
pelled from time to time — persuasion being useless — 
to use the handles of their pikes to induce the too 
inquisitive spectators to go back to the places they have 
left. 

At this period, the slope, upon each side of which in 
a pebbly bed flows a fresh, rippling stream, which is 
fed by the melting of the snow, and but yesterday lay 
like a white cloak on the shoulders of Mulahacen, so 
that the water is more abundant the hotter the weather, 

— at this period, we say, the slope is still free through- 
out its whole extent; for not until later will Don Luiz, 
Marquis of Mendoza, head of the family of Mondejar, 
erect in the centre of the road, in honor of the fair- 
haired, red-bearded Caesar, the emblazoned fountain that 
sends forth a gigantic sheaf of water, to rise in diamond- 
like spray and fall back in icy drops after quivering an 
instant on the leaves of the young ash-trees whose inter- 
lacing branches form an arbor impenetrable to the light. 


KING DON CARLOS. 


Ill 


It is certainly a caprice on the part of the Granadans 
that has led them to select for the young king’s abode, 
from among the twenty or thirty palaces their city con- 
tains, the palace that is approached by this cool avenue; 
from the gateway of the Granadas, where the jurisdic- 
tion of the Alhambra begins, to that of the Judgment, 
which leads into the enclosure of the fortress, not a ray 
of sunlight will dazzle his eyes, and except for the shrill 
note of the grasshopper and the metallic chirp of the 
cricket, he might, within sixty leagues of Africa, 
imagine himself beneath the cool and shady groves of 
his beloved Flanders. 

It is true that he would search in vain throughout all 
Flanders for a gateway like that built by King Yusef- 
Aboul-Hagiag, about the year of our Lord, 1348, which 
owes its name of the Judgment to the custom which the 
Moorish kings adopted of dispensing justice in the gate- 
way of their palace. 

When we say “ a gateway ” we ought rather to say a 
tower, for it is a veritable tower, square and high, with 
a great hollow, heart-shaped arch, above which King 
Don Carlos will see, as an instance of the instability of 
human affairs, the double Moorish hieroglyphic repre- 
senting a hand and a key ; if he has his learned governor, 
Adrian of Utrecht, at his side, he will tell him that the 
key is intended to recall the verse of the Koran which 
begins with the words “He has opened,” and that the 
hand is stretched forth to conjure the evil eye, which 
plays such scurvy tricks upon the Arabs and Neapoli- 
tans. But if, instead of applying to Cardinal Adrian, 
the king should apply to the first child whom he iden- 
tifies by his olive complexion, his great velvety eye, and 
his guttural enunciation, as one of that Moorish race 
which he will soon begin to persecute, and which one 


112 


THE BRIGAND. 


of his successors, Philip III., will finally banish from 
Spain, the child will reply, hanging his head and 
blushing with shame, that that hand and key were 
carved there at the instigation of a prophet of old who 
predicted that Granada would not fall into the power 
of the Christians until the hand should have taken the 
key. 

And thereupon the devout King Don Carlos, crossing 
himself, will smile with contempt at the thought of 
those lying prophets to whom the God of the Christians 
has so cruelly given the lie by means of the glorious 
triumph of Ferdinand of Arragon and Isabella of Castile, 
his paternal and maternal ancestors. 

That gateway, which one would say was the gateway 
of the firmament — for, as you look at it from below, it 
seems to open directly upon the sky — that gateway once 
passed. King Don Carlos will find himself on the vast 
square of Las Algives, where he may pause for a moment, 
and, sitting on his horse, lean over the parapet to see, 
lost in an abyss of vegetation , the Moorish city in which 
he is to dwell for a few days only, and which is entirely 
unknown to him; he will perceive, at the foot of a 
precipice, the Darro, which flows through Granada, and 
the Xenil, which winds around it, — the Xenil with its 
drift of silver, the Darro with its waves of gold; he can 
follow, across the broad plain that has preserved its 
Arabian name of the vega, the course of both rivers, 
encumbered with cacti, pistachio-trees, and rose laurels, 
under which they vanish at intervals, to reappear farther 
on, slender and tortuous, and gleaming like the threads 
of silk that the first winds of autumn detach from the 
spindle of the mother of our Lord. 

On that great square, around a well with a marble 
curb, the privileged ones walk back and forth, awaiting 


KING DON CARLOS. 


113 


the entree of the king, which will take place as the 
clock on the Vela Tower strikes two, — some owing their 
privilege to the title of rico hombre^ which this same 
King Don Carlos will change to that of “ grandee of 
Spain,” — as he will change to “ Majesty ” the less pom- 
pous appellation of “ highness,” with which the kings of 
Castile and Arragon have hitherto been content; others 
are "dons” and “senors;” but the ancestors of the 
dons were friends of the Cid Campeador, the ancestors 
of the senors companions of Pelagius, and the least 
among them — in fortune, be it understood, for they all 
claim to be equal in birth — the least among them deems 
himself to the full as noble as this petty Austrian prince, 
who, in their eyes, is Spanish (that is to say, a hidalgo) 
only through his mother, Joanna the Mad, daughter of 
Isabella the Catholic. 

Nor do all these old Castilians expect any good of 
this young king, whose Germanic origin betrays itself 
in his fair hair,*in his red beard, in his protruding chin, 
peculiar characteristics of the princes of the House of 
Austria. They have not forgotten that his grandfather, 
Maximilian, caring little for his grandson’s succession 
to the throne of Spain, but much for his succession to 
the imperial crown, had sent for his mother, in her 
pregnant condition, to come from Valladolid to Ghent, 
so that she might give birth in that city to a son who 
would be not only Infant of Castile, but a Flemish 
burgher also. It is of no use to tell them that all sorts 
of happy omens had attended the birth of the child of 
destiny, who came into the world on Sunday, February 
22, 1500, St. Matthew’s day; that Eutilio Benincasa, 
the greatest astrologer of the age, had predicted marvel- 
lous things concerning him, apropos of the gifts bestowed 
upon him by his godfather and godmother, the Prince 


114 


THE BRIGAND. 


of Chimay and the Princess Margaret of Austria, on 
the day when, preceded by six hundred squires, by two 
hundred horse, by fifteen hundred torches, and walk- 
ing upon carpets from the castle to the cathedral, they 
had presented the newly born child for baptism by the 
name of Charles, in memory of his maternal grandfather, 
Charles of Burgundy, called the Bold; it is of no use 
to tell them that, Margaret of Austria having given the 
child a silver-gilt ewer filled with precious stones, and 
the Prince of Chimay a golden helmet surmounted by a 
phoenix, Rutilio Benincasa had predicted that the child 
who had received those priceless gifts would some day 
be king of the countries where gold and diamonds are 
taken from the ground, and that, like the bird he bore 
on his helmet, he would be the phoenix of kings and 
emperors, — it is of no use to tell them all that : they 
shake their heads at the memory of the disasters which 
attended his youth, and which, from his first appear- 
ance in the world, have seemed to contradict flatly the 
sublime destiny which, in their opinion, flattery and 
not real knowledge of the future had promised him. 

And from the Spanish point of view they have some 
right to doubt, for it was in the very year of the young 
prince’s birth, and during his mother’s pregnancy, that 
she felt the first symptoms of the disease against which 
she has struggled, unable to overcome it, for nineteen 
years, and which will leave her in history the piteous 
name of “Joanna the Mad,” — for, hardly six years 
after the child’s birth, again on Sunday, the 22d day of 
February, the day which was said to be so propitious 
for him, his father, Philip the Fair, whose mad love- 
affairs had caused poor Joanna the loss of her reason; 
Philip the Fair, having gone to take luncheon at a 
chateau near Burgos, which he . had given to one of his 


KING DON CAliLOS. 


115 


favorites, one Juan Manuel, — Philip the Fair, we say, 
after leaving the table, indulged in a game of tennis, 
and having become very heated, asked for a glass of 
water, which was handed him by a young man who 
belonged neither to his suite nor to Don ManuePs 
household. The king drank that glass of water, and 
almost immediately was seized with a sharp pain in the 
bowels; which did not prevent him from returning, 
that evening, to Burgos, and going out again the next 
day to conquer the trouble ; but instead of his conquer- 
ing the trouble, the trouble conquered him; so that on 
Tuesday he took to his bed, on Wednesday he tried in 
vain to rise, on Thursday he lost the power of speech, 
and on Friday, at eleven o’clock in the morning, he 
gave up the ghost. 

We need not ask if desperate attempts were made to 
find the strange man who had handed the king the glass 
of water. The man did not reappear, and the whole 
story, as it was told at that time, seemed to partake 
much more of the nature of fable than of truth. For 
instance, one of the rumors that were current said that, 
among the numerous mistresses that Philip the Fair had 
had, was a gypsy named Topaz, whom her companions 
believed to be descended from the Queen of Sheba ; that 
she was betrothed to a prince of the gypsies; but that, 
having fallen in love with Philip — who, as his surname 
indicated, was one of the handsomest gentlemen not in 
Spain alone, but in the whole world — she had disdained 
the love of the noble zingaro, who had taken his revenge 
by giving Philip the glass of iced water, after drinking 
which he died. 

However it had come to pass, whether as the result 
of a crime or from natural causes, his death dealt Queen 
Joanna a fatal blow: her reason, which had already 


116 


THE BRIGAND. 


suffered from several attacks of madness, had gone alto- 
gether astray. She refused to believe in her husband’s 
death ; in her view — and they did as little as possible 
to controvert it — he was only sleeping, and, in that 
belief, she herself dressed the body in the garments that 
were most becoming to him : a doublet of cloth of gold, 
scarlet short clothes, and a crimson military cloak lined 
with ermine; on his feet she placed black velvet shoes; 
on his head a cap with a crown embroidered thereon; 
she caused the body to be laid upon a state bed and the 
doors, of the palace to be thrown open for twenty-four 
hours, so that every one could come and kiss his hand 
as if he were alive. 

They succeeded at last in coaxing her away from 
the body, which was embalmed and placed in a leaden 
coffin; and Joanna, still believing that she was accom- 
panying her sleeping husband, attended the coffin to 
Tordesillas, in the kingdom of Leon, where it was 
deposited in the convent of Santa Clara. 

Thus was fulfilled the prediction of a sorceress, who, 
when Maximilian’s son arrived in Spain, had said with 
a shake of the head, “ King Philip the Pair, I tell you 
that you will travel farther in Castile dead than alive ! ” 

But, not abandoning the hope that he would one day 
rise from his funeral bed, Joanna would not allow the 
body to be placed in a tomb; she caused it to be placed 
in the centre of the choir, on a platform, where four hal- 
berdiers kept guard night and day, and where four 
Cordelier monks, sitting at the four corners of the 
catafalque, repeated prayers incessantly. 

There it was that, when he landed in Spain, two 
years previous to the time at which we have arrived. 
King Don Carlos, who had sailed from Flushing with 
thirty-six vessels and disembarked at Villa-Viciosa, 


KING DON CAELOS. 


117 


there it was that King Don Carlos found his insane 
mother and his dead father. 

Thereupon, like a devout son, he had caused the 
coffin, closed eleven years before, to be reopened, had 
bent over the body, which was clad in a red robe and 
perfectly preserved, had gravely and coldly kissed it 
on the forehead, and, after solemnly promising his 
mother on his oath that he would never look upon him- 
self as King of Spain while she was alive, had resumed 
his journey to Valladolid, where he had caused himself 
to be crowned. 

In connection with the coronation there were mag- 
nificent festivities and tournaments, in which the king 
personally took part; but in the melee that followed the 
jousting eight noblemen were wounded, two mortally, 
and the king took an oath never to give his sanction to 
a tournament again. 

Moreover, about that time he was confronted with an 
opportunity for a genuine combat instead of a make- 
believe contest in the lists: Saragossa had declared that 
she proposed to have a Spanish prince for king, and 
would not open her gates to a Flemish archduke. 

Don Carlos received the news without betraying 
the slightest sign of emotion. His blue eye disap- 
peared for an instant behind its quivering pupil; then, 
in his ordinary voice, he gave orders to march upon 
Saragossa. 

The young king battered down the gates with cannon- 
balls, and entered the city with naked sword, bringing 
in his train, with matches lighted, the heavy guns 
which, from the moment of their first appearance, earned 
the title of the last argument of kings. 

It was from Saragossa that he issued those terrible 
decrees against brigandage, which, like the thunder- 


118 


THE BRIGAND. 


blasts of Olympian Jupiter, furrowed Spain in every 
direction. 

We must understand, of course, that, by the word 
“brigandage,” he who was one day to be Charles V. 
referred particularly to rebellion. 

And so the melancholic youth, the Tiberius of nine- 
teen, would accept no excuse for the non-execution of 
his orders. 

He was at that point in that incessant struggle which 
lasted two years, half fetes, half battles, when, on the 
9th of February, a courier arrived at Saragossa. It had 
taken him four weeks to make the journey from Flanders, 
because of the alternate freezing and thawing, and he 
brought the news that the Emperor Maximilian died on 
January 12, 1519. 

The Emperor Maximilian, naturally a small man, had 
been made great by his contemporaries. Francis I. and 
Alexander VI. compelled him to be of their stature. 

Pope Julius II. said of him: “The cardinals and 
electors made a mistake : the cardinals chose me pope, 
and the electors chose Maximilian emperor; I should 
have been chosen emperor and Maximilian pope.” 

The news of the emperor’s death caused the young 
king the greatest anxiety. If he had been present at 
his deathbed; if those two politicians — and of the two 
the child was the master — had taken a few steps to- 
gether, the younger man supporting the older, on the 
bridge that leads from earth to heaven, and, having 
halted halfway on the road to death, had agreed upon 
the plans to be followed by him who was to return to 
life, — it is certain that Charles’s election would not have 
been in doubt ; but nothing of that sort had happened. 
No precautions had been taken, the emperor’s death was 
so sudden and unexpected; and Don Carlos, deprived of 


KING DON CARLOS. 


119 


the support of Cardinal Ximenes, who had recently died, 
surrounded by his grasping, rapacious Flemings, who 
had, during the last three years, found a way to squeeze 
eleven hundred thousand ducats out of Spain, — Don 
Carlos had produced too unfavorable an impression on 
that country, which he was to enrich in the future, but 
which he was ruining in the present, to leave to itself, 
without great dread, the discontent that was springing 
up under his feet. If he went to Germany, he was not 
sure of being chosen emperor; if he left Spain, he was 
sure that he should cease to be king. 

And yet several persons urged him to set sail at once 
and to leave Spain. That, however, was not the opinion 
of his trusted adviser, Adrian of Utrecht. 

The choice lay wholly between Francis 1. and 
himself. 

But, although Don Carlos did not himself start for 
Germany, his most zealous adherents did, intrusted with 
full power to act for him. 

A courier was sent secretly to Pope Leo X. 

What were that secret messenger’s instructions ? Per- 
haps we shall learn later. 

Meanwhile, and in order that the courier who should 
bring him information of the result of the election might 
not require four weeks for the journey, Don Carlos 
announced that he proposed to travel through the 
Southern provinces, to visit Seville, Cordova, and 
Granada. 

The courier would thus have only to bestride the Alps, 
travel across Italy, embark at Genoa and disembark at 
Valencia or Malaga. 

Twelve days after the election Don Carlos would 
know the result. 


120 


THE BRIGAND. 


He had been told that the Sierra Morena and Sierra 
Nevada were infested with brigands. 

He desired to find out whether they were brigands or 
rebels. 

Hence the orders given to cleanse the Sierras, — 
orders which had been executed with respect to the 
Salteador by tlie expeditious method of setting fire to 
the mountain. 


DON EUIZ DE TOKEILLAS. 


121 


xni. 

DON RUIZ DE TORRILLAS. 

While the mountain was burning, the people of Granada 
were awaiting the arrival of Don Carlos. 

His entree was to take place, as we have said, at two 
o’clock in the afternoon; in a very few minutes the Vela 
Tower would give the signal; and, awaiting the moment 
when the grandson of Ferdinand and Isabella should 
appear, framed in the Moorish gateway like an equestrian 
statue, the gentlemen of the first families in Andalusia 
were w’alking on the square of Las Algives. 

Amid all those gentlemen of noble birth, who w^alked 
hither and thither, separately, two by two, talking aloud 
in groups, or in undertones and secretly, one was espe- 
cially noticeable by his lofty bearing and at the same 
time by his profound sadness. 

He was sitting on the marble curb around the well in 
the centre of the courtyard. 

His head, which was inclined to one side and rested 
on the palm of his hand, so that his melancholy gaze 
could lose itself in the blue depths of the sky, was 
covered with one of the broad-brimmed hats from which 
modern hats, while changing their shape, have borrowed 
the name of sombrero ; his hair fell in white curls on his 
shoulders, his grizzled beard was cut square, and around 
his neck was the decoration, in the shape of a cross, 
which Ferdinand and Isabella distributed with their own 
hands after the fall of Granada to those who had gal- 
lantly assisted in the expulsion of the Moors. 


122 


THE BRIGAND. 


Altliough his preoccupied air held indiscreet curiosity 
or careless loquacity at a distance, a man of about the 
same age as he whom we have tried to describe scruti- 
nized him closely for a moment as if to make sure that 
he was not mistaken in his identity. 

A movement made by the old man as he raised his hat 
and shook his head as if to dislodge the weight of sadness 
that forces mortal necks to bend, however strong they 
may be, removed all doubt from the mind of the man 
who was watching him. 

Consequently he approached him and said, hat in hand : 

“ As I have been your friend from my earliest child- 
hood, if seems to me that it would be ill done of me, 
witnessing your depression, not to offer you my hand 
and say, ‘Don Ruiz de Torrillas, in what way can I 
serve you ? What commands have you to lay upon me ? ' ” 

At his friend’s first word Don Ruiz de Torrillas raised 
his head, and, as he recognized the speaker, held out his 
hand to him. 

“ I am obliged to you, Don Lopez d’ Avila, ” he said. 
“ We are, indeed, old friends, and you prove, by the 
offer you have made me, that you are a faithful friend. 
Do you still live at Malaga?” 

“ Still ; and you know that, far or near, at Malaga as 
at Granada, I am always at your service. ” 

Don Ruiz bowed. 

“ When you left Malaga, was it long since you had 
seen my old friend — and yours, I think — Don Inigo ? ” 

“ I saw him every day. I have heard from my son, 
Don Ramiro, that Don Inigo and his daughter arrived 
here yesterday, after being exposed to great peril in the 
mountains, where they were detained by the Salteador. ” 

Don Ruiz turned pale and closed his eyes. 

“ But they escaped from him, ” he said, after a mo- 


DON EUIZ DE TOBRILLAS. 


123 


mentis silence, during which, by a mighty effort of his 
will, he recovered his strength, which had almost failed 
him. 

“ The truth is that this brigand, who has the audacity 
to call himself a gentleman, bore himself like a prince 
with them, according to what my son tells me: he re- 
leased them without ransom, and even without promises ; 
all of which is the more creditable to him because Don 
Inigo is the richest nobleman and Dona Flor the loveliest 
girl in all Andalusia. ” 

Don E-uiz breathed again. 

“ He did that? ” said he. “ So much the better.” 

“ But I talk to you of my son, Don Eamiro, and neglect 
to ask you about your son, Don Fernand; is he still 
travelling ? ” 

“ Yes,” Don Euiz replied in an almost inaudible voice. 

“ This is a most excellent opportunity to procure a 
place for him at the new king’s court, Don Euiz. You 
are one of the noblest gentlemen of Andalusia ; and if you 
should ask a favor of King Don Carlos, I am sure that, 
although he has eyes for none but his Flemings, he would 
grant it as a matter of policy.” 

“ I have a favor to ask of King Don Carlos, ” replied 
Don Euiz ; “ but I very much doubt if he will grant it. ” 

At that moment the clock on the Vela Tower struck 
two. 

Those two strokes, whose vibrations ordinarily an- 
nounced nothing more than that the distribution of the 
waters was about to take place, bore a different meaning 
on that day. Kot only did the waters as usual rush 
foaming into the canals, gush from the fountains, and 
whirl and eddy in the basins; but as, at the same 
moment, all the blaring trumpets announced that King 
Don Carlos was riding up the slope to the Alhambra, 


124 


THE BRIGAND. 


every one hurried to the Yusef gate in order to he there 
when he dismounted from his horse. 

Don Ruiz de Torrillas was left alone where he sat; he 
did nothing more than rise to his feet. Don Lopez had 
followed the other nobles. 

The fanfares redoubled, announcing that the king was 
ascending the slope and coming nearer and nearer. 

Suddenly he appeared, mounted on his great war-horse, 
bristling with steel as if in expectation of battle. He 
himself was clad in a suit of armor damascened with gold. 

His head alone was bare, as if it was his purpose to 
impress the Spaniards by the sight of that portion of his 
person which was least Spanish. 

In truth, as we have said before, the son of Philip the 
Fair and Joanna the Mad had no suggestion of the Cas- 
tilian type in his features, which were formed entirely, if 
we may so express ourselves, of the quarterings of the 
House of Austria. Of short stature, thickset, his head 
somewhat sunken between his shoulders, he was com- 
pelled, in order to keep that head erect, with its close- 
cropped fair hair, its red beard, its twinkling blue eyes, 
its aquiline nose, its ruddy lips, its protruding chin, to 
hold it as straight and stiff as if it were kept in that 
position by a steel gorget; so that he had, especially 
when he was on foot, a rather stiff carriage, which disap- 
peared when he was astride his horse; for he was an 
excellent horseman, and the more high-spirited the horse 
tlie more brilliant his performance. 

It will be readily understood that such a prince, who 
had none of the physical qualities of the Don Pedros, 
the Henrys, and the Ferdinands, — although, morally 
speaking, he was as just as the first, as crafty as the 
second, and as ambitious as the third, — but who, on the 
other hand, seemed at first glance to be all Hapsburg, 


DON RUIZ DE TORRILLAS. 


125 


was not the object of frenzied enthusiasm on the part 
of the Spaniards, and especially on the part of the 
Andalusians. 

And so, upon his arrival, the trumpets redoubled their 
brassy clamor, less perhaps to do honor to the grandson 
of Ferdinand and Isabella than, by their noisy flourishes, 
to cause the silence of the human voice to pass unnoticed. 

The king cast a cold, expressionless glance upon the 
men and upon their surroundings, and gave no sign of 
surprise, although both men and surroundings were in 
fact entirely unfamiliar to him; drawing in his horse, he 
dismounted, not hurriedly, not in order to come in closer 
contact with his people, but because the moment for dis- 
mounting had arrived as set down in the prearranged 
programme. 

He did not even raise his head to look at the beautiful 
Moorish gate through which he passed; he did not turn 
his eyes to read, on the small chapel beside the gate, the 
inscription indicating that, on January 6, 1492, his 
grandfather Ferdinand and his grandmother Isabella had 
passed through that gate, triumphantly marking out for 
him, in the presence of all Spain, intoxicated by the suc- 
cess of her sovereigns, the path which he followed 
twenty-seven years later, grave and frowning, amid the 
silent respect which always accompanies tlie progress of 
kings whose good qualities are as yet unknown, but 
whose faults are known. 

The fact was that a single thought was boiling inces- 
santly in that brain, as water boils in a brass kettle, 
although he betrayed externally no sign of his agitation ; 
that thought was his ardent craving for the Empire. 

What could that ambitious eye see, fixed as it was, 
through all the intervening space, upon the city of Frank- 
fort, where the great conclave of electors was in progress, 


126 


THE BEIGAND. 


in the hall of elections, — a conclave upon which the 
pope, kings, princes, all the great men of the world, in a 
word, had, like Don Carlos, their eyes fixed, while every 
ear was open to catch the slightest sound ? 

“ Are you destined to be emperor ; that is to say, as 
great as the pope, greater than any king? ” the voice of 
ambition constantly whispered in Don Carlos’s heart. 

What mattered human voices to him, when that voice 
spoke within him ? 

It was therefore, as we have said, in compliance with 
etiquette, and not by reason of the spontaneous impulse 
of his desire, nor to draw nearer to all the gentlemen 
who surrounded him, that Don Carlos dismounted. 

His whole Flemish suite instantly did the same. 

That suite consisted of Cardinal Adrian of Utrecht, his 
tutor, of the Count of Chievres, his first minister, the Count 
of Lachan, the Count of Porcian, the Lord of Fumes, the 
Lord of Beaurain, and the Dutchman Amersdorff. 

But before dismounting, Don Carlos, with his ap- 
parently vague and abstracted gaze, had noticed a group 
of gentlemen who remained covered, while all the others 
were bareheaded. 

That group alone seemed to attract his attention. 

“ Ricos hombres ! ” he said, motioning with his hand 
to those whom he addressed to take their places in his 
suite, but after the Flemish gentlemen. 

The Andalusian nobles bowed and took the places as- 
signed them, but like men who acted purely and simply 
in obedience to a command. 

Thereupon the king led the way toward the palace of 
the Alhambra, which, as seen from the square of Las 
Algives, seems at the first glance to be nothing more 
than a great square building with a single door and no 
windows. 


DON RUIZ DE TORRILLAS. 


127 


Don Carlos was bareheaded; a page carried his helmet 
behind him. 

The path was clear, every one having taken his place, 
according to his rank, in the king’s suite. 

A single man stood in the path, his hat upon his head. 

The king, although he seemed not to notice him, did 
not lose sight of him ; perhaps he would have passed him 
without turning his head in his direction or pausing a 
second, had not the man in question, with his head still 
covered, knelt upon one knee as the king approached. 

The king stopped. 

“ Are you a rico hombre ? ” he asked. 

‘^Yes, sire.” 

“ Of Arragon or Castile 1 ” 

“ Of Andalusia.” 

“ Free from alliance with the Moors ? ” 

“ Of old and pure Christian blood.” 

“ Your name ? ” 

“ Don Euiz de Torrillas.” 

“ Eise and speak. ” 

“ J^'one but royal ears may hear what I have to say to 
the king.” 

“ Stand back,” said Don Carlos, with a wave of his 
hand. 

All those who were near at hand stood back out of ear- 
shot, forming a semi-circle, with King Don Carlos and 
the rico hombre Don Euiz de Torrillas in the centre. 

“ I am listening, ” said the king. 


128 


THE BRIGAND 


XIV. 

THE GRAND JUSTICIARY. 

“Sire,” began Don Duiz, rising, “if my voice trem- 
bles, pardon me, for I feel at once confused and ill at 
ease to have to ask at your hands a favor like that which 
brings me before you — ” 

“ Speak slowly, so that I may understand you, senor.” 

“True,” replied Don Euiz, with more pride than 
courtier-like tact, “ I forgot that Your Highness still 
speaks Spanish with difficulty.” 

“I will learn it, senor,” retorted Don Carlos, coldly. 
“ I am listening,” he repeated, after a moment. 

“Sire,” Don Ruiz continued, “I have a son twenty- 
seven years of age. He loved a lady; but, fearing my 
anger — for I have to accuse myself of having been both 
too indifferent and too stern with the unhappy youth — 
fearing my anger, he became betrothed to her without 
my permission, and, although she accorded him a hus- 
band’s rights, he delayed from day to day giving her 
the title of wife, which he had promised her. The 
senora complained to her father; the father was an old 
man, and as he felt that his arm was too weak to do 
battle with an arm of twenty years, he left it to his son, 
Don Alvar, to avenge the insult. Don Alvar refused to 
listen to the apologies of my son, — who, I am bound to 
say , bore himself on that occasion with more prudence 
than I should have anticipated from one of his charac- 
ter, — Don Alvar refused to listen to his excuses; the 
two young men fought; Don Alvar was killed ! ” 


THE GRAND JUSTICIARY. 129 

“ A duel ! ” Don Carlos interrupted. “ I am not fond 
of duels.” 

“ There are occasions, Your Highness, when a man of 
honor cannot recoil, especially when he knows that at 
his father’s death he will have the right to render an 
account of his acts to his king, and crave pardon with 
head covered.” 

“Yes, I know that that is a privilege enjoyed by you 
ricos homhres. I will regulate all that. Go on.” 

“ The duel took place without witnesses. Don Alvar’s 
father charged my son with murder, and obtained an 
order for his arrest. Three alguazils appeared at my 
house to arrest him, and attempted to carry him to 
prison by force and in broad daylight. My son killed 
two, wounded the third, and fled to the mountains.” 

“ Aha ! ” said Don Carlos, adopting the familiar method 
of address with Don Ruiz for the first time, but rather 
as a threat than as a mark of affection, “ so that you are 
[thou art] a rico hornbre, but your son is a brigand 1 ” 

“ Sire, the father is dead, and his wrath has died 
with him; sire, the young woman entered a convent, 
and I paid her dowry there as if she were a royal prin- 
cess; sire, I arranged matters with the family of the 
two dead alguazils and with the wounded alguazil; but, 
in making those arrangements, I exhausted my whole 
fortune, so that naught remains of all my patrimony 
save the house in which I live on Viva Rambla. But 
that matters little, for the price of blood is paid, and 
wuth a word from you the honor of the name will arise 
unsullied from the ruins of the fortune.” 

paused, but, as the king said nothing, he 

“Therefore, Your Highness, I implore you, kneel- 
ing at your feet; therefore, sire, I beseech you, ay, a 

9 



130 


THE BRIGAND. 


thousand and a thousand times, as the adverse party no 
longer pursues him and there is naught against him save 
your royal power, — I implore and beseech you, sire, to 
pardon my son ! ” 

The king did not reply. Don Kuiz continued, — 

“ That pardon, 0 my king ! I venture to say that he 
deserves, not, perhaps, on his own account, — although 
I say again to Your Highness that 1 am in great meas- 
ure responsible for what has happened, — but because of 
his noble ancestors, all of whom say to you by my voice, 
‘ Pardon , sire ! pardon ! ’ ” 

Still Don Carlos said nothing. One would have said, 
indeed, that he had ceased to listen; so that Don Euiz 
continued in a more urgent voice, and bowing almost to 
his feet, — 

“ Sire, sire, cast your eye upon the history of our 
family ; you will see a multitude of heroes of my race 
to whom the kings of Spain owe every sort of honor and 
glory! Have mercy, sire, on my white hair, my prayers, 
my tears I If they are not enough to touch your heart, 
have pity on a noble lady, an unhappy mother! Sire, 
sire, being what you are, by your happy accession to the 
throne of all the Spains, by your mother, Joanna, by 
your grandparents, Ferdinand and Isabella, whom I 
served gallantly and loyally, as the cross I wear at my 
neck attests, — grant me, sire, the favor that I ask ! ” 

The king raised his head; the cloud that seemed to 
veil his glance lightened; but his voice was cold and 
utterly devoid of emotion as he said, — 

“ This does not concern me. Apply to the grand 
justiciary of Andalusia.” 

And he passed on. 

The Flemish and Spanish nobles followed him, and 
disappeared behind him in the palace of the Alhambra. 


THE GRAND JUSTICIARY. 131 

Don Eniz, utterly cast down, remained alone on the 
square of Las Algives. 

We err when we say that Don Euiz remained alone 
on the square: one of the nobles in the train of Don 
Carlos espied the old man, crushed by the weight of a 
royal refusal, remained behind the others without affec- 
tation, and instead of following them inside the Moorish 
palace , walked rapidly back toward Don Euiz de 
Torrillasj and, halting, hat in hand, in front of the old 
man, who was so absorbed in his disappointment that 
he had not noticed his approach, he said, — 

“ If a gentleman may do himself the honor of recall- 
ing his former friendships, I pray you to accept, my 
dear Don Euiz, the salutations, of one of those men who 
are most tenderly attached to you. ” 

Don Euiz slowly raised his clouded face; but his 
glance had no sooner fallen upon him who saluted him 
in such affectionate fashion than a gleam of joy shone 
in his eyes. 

“ Ah, is it you, Don Inigo? ” he said. “ I am happy 
to give you my hand, but on one condition — ” 

“What is that? Tell me.” 

“ That, as long as you remain in Granada, — I will 
accept no excuses, I warn you in advance, — you will 
be my guest.” 

Don Inigo smiled. 

“ I did not await your invitation for that, Don Euiz,” 
he said; “ and at this moment my daughter, Dona Flor, 
is already installed with Dona Mercedes, who, notwith- 
standing our urgent entreaties that she would not incon- 
venience herself for us, absolutely insisted on giving up 
her room to her. ” 

“The wife did, in the husband’s absence, what the 
husband would do in the wife’s absence. Then all goes 


132 


THE BRIGAND. 


well at home. I wish I could say the same here ! ” he 
added in an undertone, with a deep sigh. 

Low as he spoke, Don Inigo heard him. 

Moreover, like all the other nobles, he had seen Don 
Euiz kneeling before King Don Carlos in the attitude 
of a man imploring a favor, and it was not difficult to 
understand that his request had been refused. 

“ In truth,” he said, “ it seemed to me that you were 
not fortunate in your application to our young king, my 
dear Don Euiz. ” 

“What can you expect, senor? King Don Carlos 
himself admits that he does not yet know Spanish, and 
I, for my part, confess that I have never learned 
Flemish. But to return to you and to your charming 
daughter, Don Inigo, — I hope,” he continued in a voice 
that he could hardly keep from trembling, “ that the 
unlucky encounter of yesterday in the mountain has 
had no deplorable effect on her health ? ” 

“ You already know of that? ” asked Don Inigo. 

“Yes, senor. Anything that happens to a man of 
your eminence is an event that flies on eagle’s wings. 
Don Lopez told me ” — here Don Euiz’ voice trembled 
more than ever — “ Don Lopez told me that you fell 
into the hands of the Salteador,^^ 

“Did he tell you also that that dreaded chieftain, 
a lion and tiger to others, behaved like a gentleman, 
not like a brigand, and became a lamb and a dog in his 
dealings with us ? ” 

“He told me something of that, but I am glad to 
have the news conflrmed by you.” 

“I do confirm it, and I say this in addition, that 
I shall not consider myself free from debt to that 
young man until I have fulfilled the promise I made 
him.” 


THE GKAND JUSTICIARY. 133 

“May I know what that promise was? ” asked Don 
E.niz, hesitatingly. 

“ I swore by my patron saint that, having become 
deeply interested in him, I would not allow King Don 
Carlos a moment’s rest until he had granted me his 
pardon.” 

“He will refuse you,” said Don Kuiz, shaking his 
head. 

“ Why so? ” 

“ You asked me just now what I was doing at the 
king’s feet? ” 

“I did.” 

“ I was imploring that same pardon. ” 

“ You? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But what interest have you in that young man ? 
Tell me, Don Ruiz; for I shall act with twofold vigor, 
knowing that I am acting for a friend of thirty years’ 
standing as well as for a friend of yesterday.” 

“ Give me your hand, Don Inigo.” 

“ There is my hand.” 

“ The man of whom you speak is my son ! ” 

Don Ruiz felt Don Inigo’s hand tremble in his. 
“Your son,” he asked in a stifled voice; “your son 
and Dona Mercedes’ ? ” 

“ Of course,” Don Ruiz replied with a smile of bitter 
melancholy, “ as Dona Mercedes is my wife! ” 

“ And what did the king reply ? ” 

“ nothing ! ” 

“ What do you say , — nothing ? ” 

“ Or rather, he replied by a refusal.” 

“ Tell me the terms of his refusal.” 

“ He referred me to the grand justiciary of Andalusia.” 
“ Well ? ” 


134 


THE BRIGAND. 


“Well, the grand justiciary of Andalusia was Don 
Kodrigue de Calmenare , and Don Eodrigue de Calmenare 
is dead.” 

“Don Rodrigue de Calmenare is dead; but within a 
week the king has appointed his successor, and that 
successor arrived at Granada yesterday.” 

“ At Granada ? ” 

“Yes; and I promise you, do you understand, Don 
Ruiz ? — I promise you that you are no more sure of 
yourself than of the man the king has appointed ! ” 

Don Ruiz was about to question his old companion-in- 
arms, whose confidence in Providence and in the grand 
justiciary of Andalusia was beginning to comfort him 
somewhat, when an usher appeared at the door of the 
palace, from which they were only about twenty feet 
distant, and cried in a loud voice, — 

“Don Inigo Velasco de Haro, grand justiciary of 
Andalusia, the king desires your presence.” 

“You, Senor Don Inigo,” cried Don Ruiz, amazed 
beyond measure, — “ you are grand justiciary of 
Andalusia ? ” 

“Did I not tell you,” replied Don Inigo, giving his 
hand to Don Ruiz once more , “ that you could count 
upon the grand justiciary of Andalusia as upon your- 
self? Indeed, I might have said more than upon your- 
self, as I am the successor of Don Rodrigue de Calmenare. ” 

And, rightly judging that one must not delay in 
answering the summons of a king from whom one has 
a favor to ask, Don Inigo hastened away to obey the 
summons of Don Carlos, at as rapid a gait as the dig- 
nity of a Spanish rico homhre permitted. 


THE COURTYARD OF LIONS. 


135 


XY. 

THE COURTYARD OF LIONS. 

We beg leave to follow the grand justiciary into the 
interior of the palace of the Moorish kings, which Don 
Carlos had just entered or was about to enter for the 
first time, and which, perhaps, our readers have never 
entered. 

Following the usher who had summoned him in the 
king’s name, Don Inigo began by crossing a first court- 
yard, called indifferently the Courtyard of Myrtles, 
because of the great quantity of myrtles that grew there , 
the Courtyard of the Keservoir, because of the immense 
basin that forms its centre, and the Courtyard of the 
Mezouar, or Women’s Dath, because the women of 
the palace used to bathe in that basin in the days of 
the Moorish caliphs. 

If Don Inigo, familiar. as his wandering life had made 
him with the monuments of the old and new worlds, had 
not been so deeply preoccupied, both in mind and heart, 
he would certainly have stopped in that first courtyard, 
on whose threshold, even in our days, the traveller 
pauses in wonder and hesitation, for he divines that he 
is about to enter the mysterious and unknown world of 
the Orient. 

But Don Inigo barely raised his eyes, to see upon its 
pedestal the gigantic and magnificent vase which Spanish 
neglect leaves to-day to moulder unnoticed in the corner 
of a museum that nobody visits, but which then formed 


136 


THE BRIGAND. 


the principal ornament of that courtyard, dominated by 
the Tower of Comare, which rose above the cedar beams 
and gilded tiles of the roof, its red and orange crenelles 
standing out against a clear blue sky. 

From the Courtyard of the Keservoir Don Inigo passed 
into the antechamber of the Barca^ and thence into the 
Hall of Ambassadors ; but neither the peculiar shape to 
which the antechamber owes its name of harca (boat), 
nor the intertwining of the arabesques that cover the 
walls, nor the magnificent workmanship of the arches, 
painted green and blue and red, and hollowed out of the 
stucco with the marvellous delicacy that patient nature 
exhibits in the stalactites at which she works a thousand 
years, — none of these could for an instant divert Don 
Inigo’s mind from the thoughts that engrossed it. 

He passed thus, silent, walking swiftly, through the 
charming pavilion called to-day the Queen’s Mirror, 
from whose windows can be seen the Generaliffe, resem- 
bling an immense clump of rose-laurels, with peacocks, 
like birds made of gold and sapphires, perching on the 
top; tramping heedlessly upon the white marble flags, 
immense perfuming pans pierced with numbers of little 
holes, which were used to perfume the sultans when 
they left the bath; then, without pausing, he crossed 
the garden of Lindacaja, to-day an uncultivated tract 
and covered with brambles, then a flower-garden bril- 
liant with flowers; passed on his left the sultanas’ 
bath, still warm from the breath of the fair Chain- 
of-Hearts, and the haughty Zobeide, and was ushered 
into the Courtyard of Lions, where the king awaited 
him. 

The Courtyard of Lions has been described so often 
that it is almost useless for us to describe it in our turn ; 
so we will content ourselves with sketching in a few 


THE COURTYARD OF LIONS. 


137 


words its form and principal ornaments, without intro- 
ducing anything more than the rough model absolutely 
essential to our mise-en-scene. 

The Courtyard of Lions is a rectangle about one hun- 
dred and twenty feet long and seventy-three wide, sur- 
rounded by a hundred and twenty-eight white marble 
pillars, with capitals in gold and azure. 

Galleries twenty-eight feet from the ground surround 
the immense patio, in the centre of which rises the 
famous fountain of the Lions. 

At the moment when Don Inigo was ushered into 
the Courtyard of Lions, it had been transformed into a 
tent, and was covered with broad bands of red, black, 
and yellow stuffs, forming the colors of Spain and 
Austria, and serving the double purpose of softening 
the too glaring light and moderating the too intense 
heat of the sun. 

The fountain of the Lions, with water gushing from 
every opening, served to cool the air in the great ban- 
queting-hall , where the dinner proffered the young king 
by the people of Granada and the ricos hombres of 
Andalusia was to be served. 

Some of the guests were walking in the courtyard 
itself, others in the salon of the Two Sisters, which 
adjoins the courtyard, and others in the gallery over- 
looking the courtyard. 

Don Carlos, leaning against the head of one of the 
golden lions, was listening to his first minister, the 
Count of Chi^vres, glancing abstractedly at the reddish 
stains in the granite which are said to be the traces of 
the blood that spurted from the severed heads of the 
thirty-six Abencerages who were lured into the snare 
by the Zegris. 

Of what was Don Carlos thinking, and why did his 


138 


THE BRIGAND. 


vague and wandering glance denote such a lack of atten- 
tion to the words of his first minister? Because he 
forgot that he was at Granada in the Courtyard of Lions, 
and was transported in thought to Frankfort, to the hall 
of elections; and the traditions of the civil wars of the 
Moors, romantic as they were, disappeared in face of 
the question that was repeated by every pulsation of his 
heart, “Who will be Emperor of Germany, Francis 
or I ? ” 

At that moment the usher approached the king and 
announced that the grand justiciary of Andalusia was 
following him. 

Don Carlos raised his head; a sort of flash darted 
from his eyes in Don Inigo’s direction, and, as if to 
separate himself from his Flemish favorites, who stood 
in a circle about him, and to draw nearer the groups 
formed by the Spanish gentlemen at the other end of 
the courtyard, he walked forward to meet him whom he 
had summoned. 

Don Inigo, seeing the king come toward him, divined 
his purpose, stopped and waited until he should speak 
to him. 

“ Do you know Don Kuiz de Torrillas ? ” Don Carlos 
asked the grand justiciary. 

“Yes, Your Highness; he is one of the most nobly 
born gentlemen in Andalusia, and he fought with me 
against the Moors under your illustrious ancestors, 
Ferdinand and Isabella.” 

“ Do you know what he has asked me ? ” 

“He has asked Your Highness to pardon his son, 
Don Fernand.” 

“ Do you know what his son has done ? ” 

“He killed, in a duel, the brother of a lady whose 
lover he was. ” 


THE COUETYARD OF LIONS. 


139 


“ And then?” 

“ He killed two algnazils who came to arrest him, 
and wonnded the third.” 

« And then ? ” 

“ He fled to the mountains. ” 

“ And then ? ” 

As he uttered those words the third time, Don Carlos’s 
eyes, which were usually veiled and devoid of anima- 
tion, gazed into Don Inigo’s with the tenacity of obsti- 
nate determination and the animation of genius. 

Don Inigo recoiled a step ; he had no idea that human 
eyes could emit such a dazzling gleam, 

“ And then ? ” he faltered. 

“Yes, I ask you what he did after he fled to the 
mountains. ” 

“ Sire, I am bound to confess to Your Highness that, 
carried away by the impetuosity of his years — ” 

“ He became a brigand ! he robbed and stripped trav- 
ellers ! so that he who wishes to journey from my city 
of Granada to my city of Malaga, or from my city of 
Malaga to my city of Granada, should make his will 
before setting out.” 

“ Sire ! ” 

“ Very good. Now, my grand justiciary, what course, 
in your opinion, should we take with reference to this 
brigand? ” 

Don Inigo trembled, for there was in the voice of 
this youth of nineteen an accent of inflexibility which 
alarmed him for the future of his protege. 

“I think, sire, that we must make many allowances 
for youth.” 

“ How old is Don Fernand de Torrillas ? ” inquired 
the king. 

Don Inigo seemed to be searching his memory for a 


140 


THE BRIGAND. 


date that awoke painful recollections, for he sighed as 
he answered, — 

“ He must be twenty-seven, sire.’' 

“ Eight years older than I,” said Don Carlos. 

And his tone implied, “ Why do you speak of youth 
in connection with a man of twenty-seven ? I am nine- 
teen, and I am old ! ” 

“Sire,” said Don Inigo, “genius has aged Your 
Highness prematurely, and King Don Carlos should not 
measure other men by his stature, should not weigh 
other men in his scales.” 

“ Your opinion is, then, as grand justiciary — ? ” 

“My opinion is, sire, that the circumstances are 
peculiar; that Don Fernand is guilty, hut has some 
grounds of excuse; that he belongs to one of the first 
families in Andalusia; that his father, a worthy and 
honorable gentleman, has fulfilled all the conditions 
ordinarily demanded of the murderer by the victim’s 
family, and that it would he well for Don Carlos to 
signalize his journey through Andalusia by an act of 
clemency, and not by an act of severity.” 

“ Is that your opinion, Don Inigo? ” 

“ Yes, sire,” said the nobleman, timidly, lowering his 
eyes before the young king’s eagle glance. 

“ Then I regret having referred Don Kuiz to you. 
I will keep this matter in my own hands, and will 
decide it with my conscience.” 

He turned to the nearest group. 

“ To table, senors ! ” he said, “ and let us fall to at 
once! My grand justiciary here, Don Inigo Velasco, 
considers me too stern a judge, and I am determined to 
prove to him as speedily as possible that I am not a 
judge, but justice itself.” 

With that he turned again to Don Inigo, who was in 


THE COURTYARD OF LIONS. 141 

a measure dazed by this exhibition of so powerful a will 
in a young man who was hardly more than a boy. 

“ Sit at my right, Don Inigo,” he said. “ When we 
leave the table we will visit the prisons of Granada 
together, and there we shall surely find an opportunity 
to grant a pardon to some one more deserving than he 
for whom you ask it. ” 

He then walked to the chair intended for his use, 
and placed his hand upon the crown that surmounted 
its back. 

“ King ! king ! ” he muttered ; “ is it worth while to 
be a king? Ah! there are but two crowns in the 
world that are worthy to be craved, — the pope’s and 
the emperor’s ! ” 

And, King Don Carlos having taken his place at table 
with Don Inigo at his right and Cardinal Adrian at his 
left, all the other guests seated themselves according to 
their respective ranks and dignities. 

A quarter of an hour later — a fact which amply 
demonstrated the king’s preoccupation, for he was an 
enormous eater, and usually spent two hours over his 
dinner — a quarter of an hour later Don Carlos left the 
table, and, declining even the escort of his favorites, 
the Flemish noblemen, went out, attended by the grand 
justiciary alone, to visit the prisons of Granada. 

But when he reached the entrance to the garden of 
Lindacaja , he met a young girl who , having been unable 
to obtain leave from the ushers to go farther into the 
palace, had asked permission to remain there. 

The girl, who, although strangely dressed, was remark- 
ably beautiful , knelt upon one knee when she saw the 
king, and presented him with one hand a gold ring, 
with the other a parchment. 


142 


THE BRIGAND. 


Don Carlos started in surprise at sight of those two 
objects. 

The gold ring was the ring of the Dukes of Burgundy , 
and upon the parchment, below a few lines written in 
German characters, was this signature, well known to 
all, but especially to King Don Carlos, as it was his 
father’s signature, — 

“ Der Konig Philipp. ” 

Don Carlos stared in sheer amazement, first at the 
ring, then at the parchment, and finally at the lovely 
girl in the strange costume. 

“ Bead, sire! ” she said in the purest Saxon. 

It was in itself an adroit hit of flattery to address 
Don Carlos in the language of that Germany where he 
had been reared, and which was so dear to him. 

And so the king began to read the familiar characters, 
turning his eyes at every line, almost at every word, 
from the parchment to the girl, and from the girl to the 
parchment. 

“Don Inigo,” he said, when he had finished reading, 
“ an event has happened which compels me to postpone 
our visit to the prisons to a later hour. If you have 
aught to do, dispose of your time as you choose; if not, 
wait for me here.” 

“I will await Your Highness,” replied Don Inigo, 
who had recognized in the maiden of the gold ring and 
the parchment the little gypsy of the Moorish King 
Inn, and who suspected that there was some connection 
between her appearance and the pardon which he and 
Don Buiz had so vainly solicited at the hands of King 
Don Carlos in favor of the Salteador. 

The king contented himself by saying to the girl in 
the same language in which she had addressed him, — 


THE COURTYARD OF LIONS. 


143 


“ Follow me ! ” at the same time pointing in the 
direction of the Queen’s Mirror, which owed its name 
to the preference of Isabella the Catholic for that little 
pavilion as manifested during her sojourn at the 
Alhambra. 


144 


THE BRIGAND. 


XVI. 

QUEEN TOPAZ. 

We have already seen how little influence the sight 
of external objects seemed to have upon Don Carlos 
when he was preoccupied by the pressure of some insis- 
tent thought. And so he ascended the few steps lead- 
ing to what was once the dressing-room of the sultanas, 
but had become, since the conquest of Granada, the 
oratory of the queens of Castile, heedless of the fantas- 
tic carved work on the walls and ceiling, supported by 
small Moorish columns of curious and delicate work- 
manship which were quite worthy to attract the notice 
of a king. 

But, as we have said, the young king, following some 
phantom of his thought, his imagination, or his desire, 
seemed to close his eyes purposely to all the marvellous 
things that arose on every hand, evocations of the 
Orient. 

Having arrived at the Queen’s Mirror, Don Carlos 
halted, and turned to Ginesta without a glance at the 
beautiful panorama spread before him by nature and 
art. 

“ I recognize the ring; I recognize the parchment,” he 
said. “ How does it happen that thev are both in your 
hands r’ 

“My mother is dead; she left them to me,” said the 
girl. “They were my only inheritance; but, as Your 
Highness sees, they were a royal inheritance.” 


QUEEN TOPAZ. 


145 


“ How did your mother know King Philip the Fair? 
How is it that my father’s letter is written in German? 
How do you yourself know German ? ” 

“ My mother knew King Philip the Fair in Bohemia, 
when he was only Archduke of Austria. Among his 
numerous passions, his love for my mother was the only 
one that never weakened. When he set out for Spain in 
1506, in order to he proclaimed king, he bade my mother 
accompany him ; but my mother would not consent unless 
the king would acknowledge that the child she had 
borne two years before was really his. Then it was 
that he gave her the parchment you have in your hand j 
sire. ” 

"And the child?” demanded Don Carlos, with a 
sidelong glance at the girl. 

"That child,” she replied, without lowering her 
proud eyes, " was myself. Your Highness! ” 

"Very good!” said Don Carlos, "so much for the 
parchment ; but about the ring ? ” 

" My mother had often asked the king, her lover, for 
a ring, which should at least be a symbol of their union 
in God^s sight, if not before men; and the king had 
always promised her, not a ring simply, but this ring, 
which he used as a seal, so tliat, as he said, she might 
be able some day to secure the recognition of the daugh- 
ter of his love by the son of his lawful wife. My 
mother relied upon his promise, and did not urge her 
royal lover. Why urge him? Why think of appealing 
to the son for what the father could do himself ? She 
was twenty years old, and her lover twenty-eight — 
Alas! one day a man galloped along the road from 
Burgos to Santivarez; my mother stood in her doorway; 
I was playing with the bees and butterflies among the 
flowers in the garden. 


10 


146 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ ‘ Queen Topaz,’ lie cried, ‘ if you want to see your 
lover before he dies, you must make haste ! ’ 

“ My mother stood for a moment dumb and motionless 
with alarm; she had recognized a zingaro prince who 
had loved her for five years, and for five years had 
wanted to marry her, but whom she had always rejected 
with disdain. Then, saying no more than the three 
words, ‘ Come, my child ! ’ she took me in her arms 
and ran with me toward Burgos. When we reached 
the palace, the king had just gone in, and in the dis- 
tance we saw the gates close behind the last man of 
his suite. My mother tried to gain admission; but a 
sentinel had been placed at the gate with orders to admit 
no one. She sat down with me on the edge of the moat, 
the palace and the fortress being in the same enclosure. 
A few moments later a man rode swiftly by. 

“ ‘ Where are you going? ’ called my mother. 

“It was one of the king’s servants; he recognized 
her. 

“ ‘ I am going to bring the physician,’ he replied. 

“‘I must speak to the physician, do you under- 
stand ? ’ my mother said to him. ‘ It ’s a matter of life 
or death to the king! ’ 

“ And we remained standing, waiting for the physician 
to come. 

“ A quarter of an hour had not passed when the ser- 
vant and the physician appeared. 

“‘There’s the woman who would speak with you,’ 
said the servant. 

“‘Who is the woman?’ asked the physician. As 
his eyes fell upon my mother, he added aloud, ‘ Queen 
Topaz ! ’ then said, in an undertone, but not so. low that 
his words did not reach us, ‘ One of the king’s mis- 
tresses, but the one he loves best! — What have you 


QUEEN TOPAZ. 


147 


■) 

to say to me, woman? ’ he asked my mother. ‘ Speak 
quickly; the king awaits me.’ 

I have to say to you,’ my mother replied, ‘ that 
the king may be either poisoned or assassinated, hut 
that he is not dying a natural death.’ 

“ * So the king is dying ? ’ said the physician. 

“ ‘ The king is dying! ’ my mother repeated, in a 
tone that T shall never forget. 

“ ‘ Who told you so ? ’ 

“ ‘ His murderer. ’ 

“ ‘ What has become of him ? ’ 

“ ‘ Ask the whirlwind what becomes of the leaf it 
whirls away I His horse was carrying him toward the 
Asturias, and he is ten leagues away ere now.’ 

“ ‘ I hasten to the king. ’ 

" ‘ Go. Let him know that I am here,* she added, 
turning to the servant. 

“ * He shall know it,’ the servant replied. 

“ And they both entered the fortress. My mother 
returned to her seat on the edge of the moat. We 
passed the evening there, and the night and the next 
morning. Meanwhile the news of the king’s illness 
had spread abroad, and the crowd, which had collected 
around us the evening before and had not left us until 
well into the night, reappeared at daybreak, more 
numerous, more anxious, more earnest than ever. All 
sorts of rumors were in circulation; but that which most 
impressed my mother, as it was the most probable, was 
that the king, being heated by his exertions at tennis, 
had asked for a glass of water, and had received it from 
the hands of a man who disappeared at once. The 
description of that man accorded so well with that of 
the zingaro who had ridden by my mother’s door, and, 
as he passed, had uttered the terrible words that brought 


148 


THE BRIGAND. 


us thither, that my mother no longer had any doubt, — 
the king was poisoned ! 

“ There was no definite news, however. The doctor 
was with the king, and the persons who came out of the 
castle were not so well informed as to the sick man’s 
condition that one could depend upon what they said. 
Everybody waited, therefore, in great anxiety, my 
mother in an agony of apprehension. 

“ At eleven o’clock the gate was thrown open; and it 
was announced that the king, being much improved, 
was coming forth to reassure the people. A few seconds 
after the announcement, the king appeared on horseback; 
he was attended only by his physician and two or three 
officers of his household. 

“ It was not the first time that I had seen my father, 
but it was the first time I had seen him when I was old 
enough to remember having seen him. Oh, I remem- 
ber him well: he was wonderfully handsome, notwith- 
standing his pallor; and yet his eyes were bordered by 
the red circle of insomnia, his nostrils were contracted, 
and his bloodless lips seemed as if they were glued to 
his teeth. His horse was walking; hut the rider was so 
weak that he clung to his saddle-how, and without that 
support would certainly have fallen. He was looking 
to right and left as if in search of some one. 

“ My mother understood that it was she for whom he 
was looking; she rose and lifted me in her arms. 

“The physician, who had recognized us, touched the 
king’s shoulder, and looked in our direction. The 
king’s sight was so dimmed that perhaps he would not 
have recognized us. He stopped his horse and motioned 
to my mother to approach. At sight of that woman 
with a child of three in her arms, the four persons who 
formed the royal cortege drew apart. The crowd, divin- 


QUEEN TOPAZ. 


149 


ing what was about to take place, for my mother was 
not unknown to many of those who composed it, did 
the same. Thus we three — the king, my mother, and 
myself — were left in the centre of a great circle ; the 
physician alone was sufficiently near to hear what the 
king and my mother said. 

“ My mother, without a single word, her breast heav- 
ing with the sobs she held back, her cheeks bathed in 
the tears that escaped in spite of her efforts to restrain 
them, held me up to the king, who took me in his 
arms, kissed me, and seated me on the pommel of 
his saddle. Then, resting his nerveless hand on my 
mother’s head, which he turned back slightly, he said 
in German, — 

“ ‘ Ah, my poor Topaz, it is really you! ’ 

“ My mother could not reply. She rested her head 
against the horseman’s knee and burst out sobbing as 
she kissed it. 

“ ‘ I came out for your sake,^ said the king; ‘ solely 
for your sake ! ’ 

“‘Oh, my king! my dear, noble king!’ cried my 
mother. 

“ ‘ My father, my sweet father ! ’ I said in German. 

“ It was the first time that the king had heard 
my voice, and it spoke in the language that he 
loved. 

“ ‘ Ah I ’ said he, ‘ now I can die ; I have been called 
by the sweetest name that can be pronounced by human 
lips, and in my mother tongue ! ’ 

“‘Die!’ said my mother, ‘die! Oh, my dear 
lord, what word is that? ’ 

“ ‘ The word which God, who permits me to die the 
death of a Christian, has been whispering in my ear 
since yesterday ; for the moment that I drank that glass 


150 


THE BRIGAND. 


of iced water, I felt a shudder run through all my veins 
to my heart.’ 

“ ‘ Oh , my dear lord ! my dear lord ! ’ murmured my 
mother. 

“ ‘ I thought of you all night, my poor Topaz ! ’ he 
said. ‘Alas ! I could not do much for you while 1 lived; 
dead I can do nothing, except protect you with my 
shadow, if God permits any part of us to survive our- 
selves.’ 

“ ‘ My sweet father ! my sweet father ! ’ I repeated, 
weeping bitterly. 

“ ‘ Yes, my child, yes,’ said the king; ‘ I thought of 
you too. Take this,^ he added, hanging around my 
neck a little leather purse at the end of a silk and gold 
cord , — ‘ take this ; no one knows what may happen when 
I am dead. I leave behind me a jealous widow; your 
mother may be forced to fly. I passed the night taking 
these diamonds from their settings; they are worth about 
two hundred thousand crowns. They are your dowry, 
my dearest daughter ! and if your brother, when he has 
become King of Arragon and Castile, should some day 
refuse to recognize you despite the paper I have given 
your mother and the ring I now give her, why, you will 
at least he able to lead the life of a wealthy high-born 
dame, if not that of a royal princess ! ’ 

“ My mother wished to take the ring only, and to 
refuse the purse; but the king gently put aside her 
hand. So she had the ring and I had the purse. 
Moreover, fatigue and emotion had exhausted the poor 
dying man’s strength. He turned even paler, which 
one would have thought impossible, and swayed toward 
my mother, helpless and almost fainting. My mother 
held him in her arms, put her lips to his icy forehead, 
and called for help; she tottered under the weight of 


QUEEN TOPAZ. 


151 


that inert body, which was no longer able to support 
itself. The physician and the retainers hurried to the 
spot. 

“ ‘ Go ! ’ said the physician, ‘ gol ’ 

“My mother did not stir. 

“ ‘ Do you want him to die here, before your eyes? ’ 
he said. 

“ ‘ Do you think that my presence is fatal to him ? ’ 

“ ‘ Your presence is killing him.’ 

“ ‘ Come, my child! ’ she said. 

My father! my sweet father! ’ I repeated again 
and again. And, as I felt that my mother was taking 
me away in her arms, I exclaimed, ‘No, no! I don’t 
want to go ! ’ 

“ At that moment we heard a loud cry of anguish 
from the direction of the city. Queen Joanna, all di- 
shevelled, with distorted features, paler than her dying 
husband, was running toward us, wringing her hands 
and crying, — 

“ ‘ He is dead ! he is dead ! they told me he was 
dead! ’ 

“ I was. afraid; I threw myself on my mother’s breast, 
and just as the circle opened at one point to allow my 
mother and myself to make our escape, it opened at 
another point to admit Queen Joanna. My mother 
hurried along for about a hundred yards; then, her 
strength failing her, she sat down at the foot of a tree, 
strained me to her breast, and bent her head over me, 
her long hair enveloping me like a veil. When she 
raised her head, when her hair fell from my face, when 
I looked for King Don Philip, the gate of the fortress 
had closed upon him and Queen Joanna.” 

Throughout this narrative the king had not uttered a 
single word, had not shown the slightest sign of emo- 


152 


THE BRIGAND. 


tion; but as the girl, choked by her tears, was unable 
to continue, he put out his hand and pointed to a chair. 

“Be seated,” he said; “ you are entitled to be seated 
in my presence: I am not emperor as yet.” 

But she replied, shaking her head, — 

“ No, no; let me go on to the end. I have come here 
in quest of the king, not of my brother; I have come, 
not to claim my rank, but to solicit a favor. If my 
strength fails me, I will fall at your knees, sire; but 
I will not be seated in the presence of the son of Philip 
and Joanna. Oh, my God ! ” 

She stopped, overcome by the emotion aroused by her 
memories. 

Then, respectfully kissing the hand the king held out 
to her, she stepped back and continued her story. 


THE BED OF STATE. 


153 


XVII. 

THE BED OF STATE. 

“ My mother remained where she had sat down, or 
rather, where she had fallen. 

“ The day passed without other news from the king 
than this, that he had retired upon returning to the 
palace. 

“ On the following day we learned that the king had 
tried, but in vain, to speak. On the next day the king 
lost all power of speech about two o’clock in the after- 
noon. On the next day, at eleven o’clock in the morn- 
ing, there was a great cry from the castle, which seemed 
to shatter doors and windows in its haste to spread over 
the city and to fly thence to every corner of Spain , — 

“ ‘ The king is dead! ’ 

“ Alas I sire , at that time I hardly knew what death 
or life was. And yet at that cry, ‘ The king is dead! ’ 
feeling my mother’s chest heave and the tears roll from 
her face upon mine, I realized that there was in this 
world a thing that is called unhappiness. 

“ During the four days that we remained at the castle 
gate, my mother took care of me and supplied all my 
needs; but I do not remember to have seen her eat or 
drink. 

“We remained there one more day and night. 

“ On the following day we saw the gates of the castle 
thrown open; a mounted herald appeared, preceded by 
a trumpeter; the trumpeter blew a mournful flourish 


154 


THE BRIGAND. 


and then the herald spoke. I did not understand what 
he said ; but he had no sooner pronounced the words he 
had to say and gone on to make the same announcement 
on all the squares and public places in the city, than 
the crowd rushed to the gate, and flowed in great waves 
into the fortress. 

“ My mother rose, took me in her arms, and whis- 
pered in my ear as she kissed me, — 

“ ‘ Come, my daughter, we are going to see your sweet 
father for the last time ! ’ 

“ I did not understand why she should tell me that 
we were going to see my father and weep as she told me. 

“ We followed the crowd that rushed toward the gate 
of the castle, and entered with it. The courtyard was 
already full ; two sentinels were on guard at the door, 
through which the people were admitted, two by two. 
We waited a long while; my mother held me in her 
arms all the time, otherwise I should have been crushed. 
At last our turn came ; we entered like the others ; but 
as soon as we were inside, my mother put me down and 
led me by the hand. 

“ They who walked before us were weeping ; they who 
walked behind us were weeping. 

“ We walked slowly through richly furnished apart- 
ments; at every door there were two guards who saw 
that the people passed through two by two. 

“ We approached a room that seemed to be the goal of 
our melancholy pilgrimage. 

“ At last we entered that room. 

“ Oh, monsenor, I was very young, but I could 
describe all the furniture, the hangings, the tapestries, 
the curtains of that room to the smallest details, every 
object was imprinted so deeply in my memory. 

“ But the principal object in the room, the one 


THE BED OF STATE. 


155 


which, by its mournful solemnity, soon engrossed all 
my attention, was a bed covered with black velvet. 
Upon that bed, dressed in a brocade robe, a crimson 
cloak lined with ermine, a doublet of cloth of gold, and 
scarlet short clothes, lay a man in the stiffness and 
immobility of death. 

“ It was my father. 

“ Death had restored to his features the serenity which 
pain had taken from them when I saw him four days 
before. In death he seemed even more beautiful than 
when living, if that were possible. 

“Beside the bed, robed in the ermine-lined cloak of 
royal purple, with the royal crown upon her head, wear- 
ing a long white dress, her hair falling in disorder upon 
her shoulders, stood a woman, with staring eyes, unnat- 
urally wide open, motionless features, colorless lips, 
and paler, if it were possible, than the dead; she held 
one finger upon her lips, and said again and again, in a 
voice so low as to he almost inaudible, — 

“ ‘ Be careful and not wake him; he is asleep! ’ 

“ It was Queen Joanna, your mother, sire. 

“When she saw her, my mother stopped; hut she 
soon realized that the queen neither saw nor heard any- 
thing, and she murmured, — 

“ ‘ She is very fortunate : she is mad ! ’ 

“We kept on toward the bed: the dead man’s hand 
was hanging over the side; it was the hand which every- 
body was allowed to kiss, and which my mother and I, 
by virtue of that permission, had come to kiss. 

“ When my mother reached the bedside, I felt her 
stagger. She has often told me since that she did not 
want to kiss that hand, hut to strain the body to her 
heart in a last embrace, to open the closed eyes, to warm 
the cold lips with her own. She had the courage to 


156 


THE BEIGAND. 


restrain herself. I did not even hear her weep at that 
moment. She knelt without a shudder, without a shriek, 
without a sob, took the dead man’s hand, and gave it to 
me to kiss first, saying, — 

“ ‘ Oh, my child, never forget him you see at this 
moment, for you will never see him again ! ’ 

“‘It is my sweet father sleeping there, isn’t it, 
mamma? ’ I whispered. 

“ ‘ It is the father of a whole people, my child ! ’ my 
mother answered, motioning to me to keep silent. 

“ And she kissed the dead man’s hand long and 
fondly. 

“ We went out through the door opposite that hy 
which we had entered; and in the room adjoining the 
one where the bed of state was my mother staggered, 
uttered a feeble cry, and fell to the floor in a swoon. 
Two men, who had also passed through the chamber of 
death, approached us. 

“ ‘ Get up; do get up, mamma! ’ I cried, ‘ or else I 
shall think you ’re asleep, like my sweet father.’ 

“ ‘ Look,’ said one of the men; ‘ it ’s she ! ’ 

“ ‘ Who is she? ’ the other asked. 

“‘The gypsy who was the king’s mistress; the one 
they call Queen Topaz.’ 

Let us take her and her child away from here,’ 
said the second man. 

“And one of them lifted my mother in his arms, 
while the other led me by the hand. We passed 
through the royal apartments and crossed the courtyard. 
The man who carried my mother laid her down at the 
foot of the tree where we bad sat three days and nights; 
the man who held my hand left me beside my mother, 
and both of them went away. I threw my arms around 
my mother and covered her face with kisses. 


THE BED OF STATE. 


157 


“ ‘ Oh, mamma, mamma! don’t go to sleep like my 
sweet father! ’ I cried. 

Whether because the air revived her, or because the 
tears and caresses of a child renewed the sources of life 
in my mother’s heart, or because the natural end of 
her swoon had arrived, she reopened her eyes. For a 
moment she could not remember what had taken place ; 
then, assisted by my recollections, which my childish 
lips reproduced in all their cruel ingenuousness, she 
finally remembered everything, as one remembers a 
terrible dream. 

“ ‘ Come, my child,’ she then said; ‘ there is nothing 
more for us to do here ! ’ 

“ And we went back to the house. 

“ That same evening my mother took down from the 
wall an image of the Madonna for which she had an 
especially devout veneration, her own portrait, and the 
portrait of King Philip, and when it was dark we set 
forth. 

“We walked many days — now that T know some- 
thing of time, I should say for a month, perhaps — stop- 
ping only long enough for needed rest; and at last we 
reached the Sierra Nevada. There my mother fell in 
with a tribe of gypsies, and made herself known to 
them. They gave her the house which has since be- 
come the Moorish King Inn. The tribe camped in the 
neighborhood and obeyed her as their queen. 

“ This state of afiairs lasted for several years ; but I 
noticed that a gradual change was taking place in my 
mother. She was still beautiful, but her beauty changed 
its character, and I might almost say its form; she had 
become so pale that it was the beauty of a phantom, not 
of a living creature. I believe that she would have left 
the earth long before, like the mists that rise from the 


158 


THE BRIGAND. 


mountains in the morning and float heavenward, had 
not I, in a certain sense, held her hack with my hand. 

“ One day I noticed that neither the Madonna nor the 
king’s portrait nor her own was in her room; I asked 
her what had become of them. 

“ ‘ Follow me, my child! ’ she said. 

“ She led me into the mountains, and, by a path 
known only to herself, to a grotto hidden from all eyes, 
out of sight, undisco verable. In the grotto, above a 
bed of heather, was the Madonna; at either side, a 
portrait. 

“ ‘ My child,’ said she, ‘ it may be that some day you 
will have to seek a place of refuge in the mountains; 
this is inaccessible ; do not reveal its existence to any- 
body on earth ! Who can say to what persecution you 
may be exposed? This grotto is life; ay, more than 
life, liberty! ’ 

“ We passed the night there; the next day we returned 
to the house; but, as we were returning, I noticed that 
my mother’s gait was slower and less assured; two or 
three times on the way she sat down to rest, and each 
time she drew me to her side and pressed me to her 
heart. At every kiss, at every embrace, my tears over- 
flowed; for, in spite of myself, my thoughts went back 
to the day when my father rode out from Burgos, pale 
and swaying in his saddle, when he pressed me to his 
heart, and for the first time called me his child in 
words that I could understand. 

“ My presentiment did not deceive me. 

“ On the day following that on which we returned 
from the grotto, my mother took to her bed. From 
that moment I realized that she was on the road that 
leads to eternity, and I never left her. 

“ And she, knowing that the moment was approach- 


THE BED OF STATE. 


159 


ing for the long journey that takes us away from all 
that is dear to us, talked to me of nothing hut my 
father. She reminded me, in such a way that they 
were engraved so deeply in my mind that I can never 
forget them, of all the incidents of my youth as I have 
told them to you, sire. She gave me the ring; she gave 
me the paper ; she told me that I had — pardon me , 
Your Highness — that I had a brother who would reign 
some day; that it was for me to judge whether I ought 
to make myself known to my brother, or to live, un- 
known hut rich, in whatever part of the world it might 
please me to inhabit, by grace of the diamonds my father 
had given me. 

I listened on my knees, weeping, at her bedside; 
for she no longer left her bed, and every day her face 
became paler, her voice weaker, her eye brighter; and 
when I questioned the physician of our tribe, who had 
studied the science of curing disease under Oriental 
doctors, and asked him, — 

“ ‘ What is the matter with my mother ? ’ 

“ ‘ Nothing,’ he replied. ‘ She is going to God! ’ 

" The day on which God opened the doors of eternity 
to her arrived. 

“ I was on my knees beside her bed as usual : she was 
talking to me, not of herself, but of me. One would 
have said that her eye, on the point of closing forever, 
was struggling, in an impulse of maternal affection, to 
pierce the future. Her mind strove with all the strength 
of her death agony to grasp an indefinite form. A sort 
of smile played about her lips. She raised her hand, 
pointing to something like a ghost that had passed before 
her eyes. She murmured two words, which I took for 
the beginning of delirium, for they had no connection 
with any of our common memories. I thought that I 


160 


THE BRIGAND. 


must have misunderstood her; I raised my head to hear 
better; hut twice more, in a feeble voice, she repeated, — 

“ ‘ Don Demand ! Don Fernand ! ’ 

“ Then she placed her hands on my head. My head 
bent beneath that last benediction. I waited for her to 
raise her hands; I waited in vain: she died, blessing 
me ! 

“ One would have said that she wished to shield me 
forever with the buckler of her affection ! 

“ If Your Highness ever travels from Granada to 
Malaga, you will see my mother’s grave in a little 
valley about a mile beyond the Moorish King. You 
may recognize it by the stream that flows beside the 
stone surmounted by a cross, — for my mother, by the 
grace of the Lord Jesus, was a Christian, — and by this 
inscription, roughly carved with a knife on the stone: 

“ La Keyna Topacia La Hermosa. 

“ And Your Highness will reflect that she who rests 
beneath that stone is not altogether a stranger to you, 
as she loved King Philip, our father, so dearly that she 
could not survive* him. Oh, mother! mother!” the 
girl continued, choking back her sobs, and putting her 
hands over her eyes to conceal her tears. 

“ Her body shall be removed to some holy monas- 
tery,” said the young king, in his quiet voice, “and I 
will found an ohit^ so that the monks shall say a mass 
every day for the repose of her soul. Go on. ” 


THE BROTHER AND SISTER. 


161 


XYIII. 

THE BROTHER AND SISTER. 

“ Some time after my mother’s death,” said Ginesta, 
“ the gypsies determined to change their domicile. 
From the day that she closed her eyes they looked on 
me as their queen. So they came to tell me of the plan 
decided upon by the ancients of the tribe, and to request 
my assent. I gave it, saying to them that the tribe 
might go where it chose ; that it was as free as the birds 
of the air ; but that, for my own part, I would not leave 
the stone under which my mother was laid. 

“ The council assembled, and I was warned that they 
had formed a scheme to seize me during the night pre- 
ceding their departure, and to carry me with them by 
force. 

“ I procured a supply of dates, which I carried to 
the grotto; and, two days before the date fixed for the 
departure, I disappeared. On the evening when the 
plan of seizing me was to be put in execution they 
sought me in vain. 

“ Thus my mother’s precautions bore their fruit : I 
had a safe, inaccessible retreat, hidden from every eye. 

“ The gypsies were determined not to go away with- 
out me, and I was determined to remain hidden so long 
as they remained. 

“ Thej’ delayed their departure a month. During 
that month I left my retreat only at night, to pluck a 
little wild fruit, and to ascertain, from the top of the 

11 


162 


THE BRIGAND. 


elilfs, by the light of their fires, whether the camp was 
still there. 

“ One night the fires were no longer burning. It 
might be a ruse to lure me into some unsheltered spot 
and take me by surprise; so I remained hidden in a 
clump of myrtles, from which, by putting out my head, 
I could overlook the whole road. There I waited for 
daylight. 

“ When daylight came it showed me that the house 
was abandoned and the road deserted. I dared not go 
down, however, but postponed my explorations till 
night. 

“ The night was dark and without a moon ; the stars 
alone twinkled in a sky of such a deep blue that it was 
almost black. But to us gypsies, daughters of the dark- 
ness, there are no shadows so dense that our eyes cannot 
penetrate them. 

“ I went down to the road ; on the other side was my 
mother’s grave, and I went and knelt there. In the 
middle of my prayer I heard the step of a horse. The 
rider could not be one of my comrades, so I waited 
without fear; indeed, at night, in the mountains, I 
would have defied the gypsies themselves. 

It was a traveller. 

“ As he rode by, I rose to my feet, having finished 
my prayer; doubtless he took me for a spectre rising 
from its grave. He cried aloud, crossed himself, urged 
his horse to a gallop, and disappeared. 

“ The sound of the horse’s hoofs grew gradually 
fainter, then died away altogether. The darkness be- 
came silent once more, and the silence was disturbed 
only by the usual noises of the mountain, the creaking 
of the trees, the falling of a stone, the howl of a wild 
beast, the hoot of a bird of night. 


THE BROTHER AND SISTER. 163 

“ I was very certain that there was no human being 
in the neighborhood, 

“ Therefore the gypsies had gone. 

“ The first hours of daylight confirmed what the dark- 
ness had told me. 

“ I felt as if I were relieved of an immense weight. 

“I was free; the mountain was mine, the whole 
Sierra became my kingdom. 

“ I lived thus several years, without desires, without 
needs, living, like the birds, on our wild fruits, the 
water from our springs, the night air, the morning 
dew, and the noonday sunlight. 

“ I was about my mother’s size. Her clothes fitted 
me, her trinkets sufficed me ; but I lacked something : it 
was a companion. 

“ One day I went as far as Alhama. I purchased a 
goat and returned. 

“ While I was absent, an innkeeper had taken pos- 
session of our house. He questioned me. I told him 
who I was, but without telling him where I lived. He 
asked me for some information, which I gave him, con- 
cerning the frequency with which travellers passed. 

“ Gradually, as a result of the opening of the inn, the 
mountain became peopled anew. Its guests were men 
with stern faces and savage manners; they frightened 
me. I went back into the woods, and never saw the 
inn or the road except from a distance, and from some 
inaccessible spot. 

“Unusual noises woke the echoes of the mountain; 
sometimes there were reports of firearms, sometimes 
yells of rage, sometimes calls for help. 

“ The gypsies were succeeded by the brigands. 

“ To me there was no great difference ; ignorant of the 
laws of society, having no notion of what was good or 


164 


THE BRIGAND. 


what was evil, seeing the abuse of weakness by force 
throughout all nature, I believed that the world of 
cities was made on the same plan as the world of the 
mountain. 

“ And yet those men frightened me ; I moved farther 
and farther away from them. 

“ One day I was walking, as my custom was, in the 
wildest part of the Sierra; my goat was leaping from 
rock to rock, and I behind her, but some distance away, 
stopping every moment to pluck fruit or flowers, or wild 
berries. Suddenly I heard my dear, faithful companion 
utter a bleat of pain, then another, but farther away, 
then a third, still farther away ; you would have said a 
gust of wind was carrying her off, and that, being unable 
to resist that superior force, she was calling to me for 
help. 

“ I rushed in the direction from which the cries came. 
I heard a shot, perhaps half a mile away. I saw the 
smoke curling up above the bushes ; I ran toward the 
smoke and the noise, without a thought that I might be 
running into danger. As I approached the spot where 
the shot was fired, above which the smoke was still 
floating in the pure atmosphere of the Sierra, I saw my 
goat coming toward me: she was dragging herself along, 
bleeding from wounds in the shoulder and neck; but 
when she saw me, instead of coming to me, she turned 
back, as if to urge me to follow her. The poor creature’s 
instinct could intend no harm to me, so I followed her. 

■“ In a clearing near by stood a handsome young man 
of twenty five or six years, leaning on his arquebus and 
watching an enormous she-wolf struggle in the agony of 
death. At that sight everything became clear to me: 
the wolf had seized upon my goat, and was carrying her 
away to her cubs, to devour her with them; the young 


THE BEOTHER AND SISTER. 


165 


hunter had fallen in with the fierce beast and broken 
both her hind legs with his hall. The wounded wolf 
had released the goat; the goat had returned to me, and 
then, in her gratitude, had led me back to the man who 
had saved her life by killing her enemy. 

“ As I drew near the young man a strangely disturbed 
feeling took possession of me: he seemed to me of a 
nature superior to everybody I had overseen. I thought 
him almost as handsome as my father. He, on his side, 
gazed at me in amazement; it was evident that he was 
in doubt whether I was a mortal creature, and that he 
took me for one of the spirits of the streams, the flowers, 
or the snow, which, according to tradition, and espe- 
cially the traditions of our race, wander among the 
mountains. 

“He was waiting, therefore, for me to speak first, in 
order that he might form an idea, from my words, the 
tones of my voice, or my motions, what I was, when 
suddenly a strange thing took place in my mind: 
although there was nothing to connect the present with 
the past, although there was no analogy between what I 
had before my eyes at that moment and what I had had 
before them five years before, there came to my memory 
the whole scene at my mother’s death-bed, when she, 
enlightened by the approach of death, raised herself in 
her bed with her arm extended, pointing to some object 
that I could not see; and her hoarse voice, as living 
and distinct as I had heard it on the day of her death, 
murmured in my ear the same words it had murmured 
on that day , ‘ Don Fernand ! ’ 

“‘Don Fernand!’ I repeated aloud, yielding to an 
inward impulse and without even thinking of what I 
was saying. 

“ ‘ How do you know me 1 ’ asked the astonished 


166 


THE BRIGAND. 


young man. * How do you know my name when I don’t 
know yours ? ’ 

“ And he glared at me almost angrily, convinced that 
I was a supernatural being. 

“ ‘ Is your name really Don Fernand? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ You must know that it is, as you call me by it.’ 

“ ‘ I called you by that name,’ I said, ‘ because that 
name came to my lips just as I caught sight of you; 
hut, aside from that name, I know nothing of you.’ 

“ And I told him how my dying mother had uttered 
that name, and how, ever since that day, it had lain 
asleep in my memory, where it had suddenly waked at 
that moment. 

“Whether it was a case of instantaneous sympathy, 
or whether there really exists between us one of the 
secret bonds that join the threads of two persons’ des- 
tinies long before they meet, from that moment I loved 
that young man, not as one loves a stranger whom one 
meets by chance, and who tyrannically takes possession 
of one’s thoughts, but as a being whose life, though it 
may have been lived entirely apart from yours, is des- 
tined sooner or later, after a detour, to unite and be 
inextricably mingled with yours, like the brooks that 
flow from separate springs, which, after watering two 
different valleys, after losing sight of each other and 
forgetting each other’s voices, suddenly meet at the foot 
of the mountain of which each has bathed one slope , and 
plunge into each other’s arms in mutual recognition. 

“I do not know if it was the same with him; but I 
do know that from that day to this I have lived in his 
life, and it seems to me that, without any effort, I may 
almost say without any pain, whatever cut short his 
life would cut short mine. 

“ This state of affairs had lasted two years when I 


THE BROTHER AND SISTER. 167 

learned of your arrival in Andalusia by the increased 
severity of the measures taken against Eernand. 

“ Day before yesterday Don Inigo and his daughter 
crossed the Sierra. Does Your Highness know what 
happened to them ? ” 

Don Carlos, his eyes still veiled, made an affirmative 
motion of the head. 

“ Behind Don Inigo and his daughter came the troops 
who dispersed Fernand’s band, and, instead of wasting 
their time tracking him from Sierra to Sierra, set tire 
to the mountain and surrounded us with a circle of 
flames. ” 

“ You say ws, girl ? ” 

“ I say usy yes. Your Highness, for I was with him. 
Did I not tell you that my life was bound to his ? ” 

“ Well, what happened? ” inquired the king. " The 
leader of the brigands surrendered, was captured ? ” 

“ Don Fernand is safe in the grotto my mother revealed 
to me.” 

“But he cannot remain in hiding forever; hunger 
will force him to come out of his retreat, and he will 
fall into the hands of my troops.” 

“That is what I thought, too. Your Highness,” said 
Ginesta; “that is why 1 took this ring and this parch- 
ment and came to you.” 

“ And when you arrived you learned that I had re- 
fused to pardon the Salteador at the solicitation of his 
father, Don Euiz de Torrillas, and subsequently at the 
solicitation of the grand justiciary, Don Inigo?” 

“Yes, I learned that, and it confirmed me in my 
desire to gain access to the king; for I said to myself: 
‘ Don Carlos may refuse a stranger what he asks in the 
name of humanity or of favor; but Don Carlos will not 
refuse a sister what she asks in the name of their father’s 


168 


THE BKIGAND. 


tomb!’ — King Don Carlos, your sister prays for the 
pardon of Don Fernand de Torrillas, in the name of 
Philip, our father.” 

As she uttered the last words with the utmost dignity, 
Ginesta knelt on one knee before the king. 

The young monarch gazed at her for a moment in 
that humble posture, without speaking, and without the 
slightest external indication of what was taking place 
in his mind. 

“And suppose I should tell you,” he rejoined after 
a brief silence, “ that the pardon you solicit, which I 
had sworn to grant to no one, can be granted only on 
two conditions 1 ” 

“ Then you grant me his pardon ? ” cried the maiden, 
trying to seize the king’s hand to kiss it. 

“Wait until you know the conditions, girl, before 
you thank me.” 

“I listen, 0 my king! I wait, 0 my brother! ” said 
Ginesta, raising her head, and looking at Don Carlos 
with a smile of ineffable joy and devotion, 

“ What if the first of these conditions were that you 
must give me the ring, destroy the parchment, and bind 
yourself by the most terrible of oaths never to mention*^ 
your royal birth, of which the ring and the parchment 
are the only proofs ? ” 

“ Sire,” said the girl, “ the ring is on your finger, — 
keep it; the paper is in your hands, — destroy it; dictate 
the oath to me and I will repeat it. What is the other 
condition ? ” 

There was a momentary gleam in the king’s eyes, but 
it vanished at once. 

“ It is customary among us chiefs of the religion,” he 
continued, “ when we pardon some great sinner from the 
temporal penalty he has incurred, to do so on condition 


THE BKOTHEK AND SISTER. 


169 


that some pure soul, who can obtain his spiritual par- 
don, shall pray for him at the altar of the God of mercy. 
Do you know any chaste and innocent human creature, 
who is disposed to enter a religious institution, to re- 
nounce the world, — to pray night and day, in short, 

— for the salvation of his soul whose body I will 
save ? ” 

“Yes,” said Ginesta; “tell me at what convent I 
must take the vows, and I will enter it.” 

“ There will be a dowry to pay,” muttered Don 
Carlos, as if he felt some shame at imposing this last 
condition upon Ginesta. 

Ginesta smiled sadly, and, taking from her bosom 
the little leather bag stamped with the arms of Philip 
the Fair, she opened it and poured at the king’s feet the 
diamonds it contained. 

“ There is my dowry,” she said; “ it will be sufficient, 
I trust; for my mother assured me more than once that 
these diamonds were worth a million.” 

“ So you abandon everything,” queried Don Carlos, 

— “ social rank, happiness to come, worldly fortune, — 
to secure the brigand’s pardon?” 

Everything! ” replied Ginesta; “and I have but 
one favor to ask; that is, that I may carry him the 
pardon myself.” 

“ Very well,” said Don Carlos; “you shall have w.hat 
you wish.” 

And, going to a table, he wrote a few lines, which he 
signed with his hand and sealed with his seal. 

Then, returning to Ginesta at the same slow and 
solemn gait, — 

“ Here,” said he, “ is the pardon of Don Fernand de 
Torrillas; hand it to him yourself; he will see, upon 
reading it, that at your request his life and lionor are 


170 


THE BRIGAND. 


safe. On your return, we will agree upon the convent 
you are to enter.’* 

“Oh, sire! ” cried the girl, seizing the king’s hand; 
“ oh, how good you are, and how earnestly I thank 
you! ” 

She ran down the stairs as lightly as if she were up- 
held by the wings of a bird, crossed the garden, hur- 
ried through the apartments, left the Courtyard of the 
Eeservoir behind her, and found herself once more on 
the square of Las Algives, having neither walked nor 
run, but soared, as one does in a dream. 

When she had gone, Don Carlos carefully picked up 
the diamonds, put them in the leather purse, bestowed 
purse, ring, and parchment in a sort of secretary, of 
which he took the key, then walked slowly and pen- 
sively downstairs. 

At the foot of the stairs he found Don Inigo, and 
looked at him in amazement, as if he had no idea of 
finding him there. 

“ Sire,” said the grand justiciary, “ I am here by com- 
mand of Your Highness, who ordered me to await him 
here. Has Your Highness no orders to give me ? ” 

Don Carlos seemed to make an effort to remember; 
forcing back his constant thought of the Empire, which 
covered up all his other thoughts, as the obstinate, ever- 
flowing tide covers the beach, he said, — 

“ Ah, yes, you are right. Inform Don Ruiz de 
Torrillas that I have signed his son’s pardon.” 

And while Don Inigo betook himself to the square 
of Las Algives to announce the good news to his friend, 
Don Carlos walked on toward the Courtyard of Lions. 


THE ASSAULT. 


171 


XIX. 

THE ASSAULT. 

Ginesta was already on the road to the mountain. 

Let us go before her and see what had happened in the 
grotto after she left it. 

Fernand followed her with his eyes so long as he was 
able to see her, and not until she had passed completely 
from his sight did he consider himself alone. 

Then he turned his eyes once more upon the conflagra- 
tion. The whole mountain was enveloped in the blazing 
sheet ; the shrieks of the wild beasts were stifled by the 
fire and smoke, and naught could be heard save the 
mighty roaring of the vast furnace, mingled in Don 
Fernand’s ears with the rushing of the cataract. 

It was a magnificent spectacle ; but, magnificent as it 
was, it became fatiguing at last. Xero, who had so long 
desired to burn Rome, finally turned his dazzled eyes 
away from the burning city and returned to his little 
retreat on the Palatine, dreaming of his golden house. 

Don Fernand returned to his grotto and lay down upon 
his bed of heather, likewise dreaming. 

Dreaming of what ? 

He would have found it hard to say. Was it of the 
beauteous Dona Flor, whom he had seen pass before his 
eyes like a luminous meteor, and whom in his strength 
he had saved 1 

Was it of the gentle Ginesta, whom he had followed 
through the winding paths of the forest, as the lost sailor 
follows astar, and who had saved him in his weakness ? 


172 


THE BKIGAND. 


However that may have been, he ended by falling 
asleep as tranquilly as if he were not surrounded by 
five or six leagues of mountains, all burning on his 
account. 

A little before daybreak he was aroused by a strange 
noise which seemed to come from the bowels of the moun- 
tain. He opened his eyes and listened. 9 

A vigorous, continuous scratching was in progress 
within a few feet of his head ; it was as if a miner were 
working desperately on some underground lead. 

Don Fernand did not hesitate a moment as to the 
cause of the noise : his enemies had discovered his re- 
treat, and, recognizing the absolute impossibility of attack- 
ing him in front, were at work in the mountain with a 
view of attacking him by a subterranean mine. 

He rose and examined his arquebus ; the match was in 
good condition, and he had twenty or twenty-five cart- 
ridges beside the one with which it was loaded ; and 
when his ammunition was exhausted he had his Pyrenees 
knife, upon which he relied almost as much, yes, more 
than upon all the firearms in the world. 

He seized his arquebus, therefore, and put his ear close 
to the wall of the grotto. 

The miner seemed to be making constant, if not rapid 
progress ; it was evident that after a few hours more of 
such assiduous toil he would succeed in putting himself 
in communication with the grotto. 

At daybreak the noise ceased. Doubtless the miner 
was taking a little rest. But, in that case, why did not 
one of his companions go on with his work ? 

That is what Don Fernand could not explain. 

Like all logical minds, he did not persist in seeking the 
solution of a problem he could not understand, saying to 
himself that the time would come when the mystery 


THE ASSAULT. 173 

would be explained, and that he must wait patiently for 
that time. 

The young man had every reason in the world to wait 
patiently. 

In the first place, he had no fear of famine for five or 
six days at least: Ginesta, it will be remembered, had 
placed a supply of provisions at his disposal ; he attacked 
them gallantly an hour or two after sunrise, and it was 
easy to see, by the ardor with which he applied himself 
to that duty, that the precarious situation in which he 
found himself had no influence whatever upon his 
appetite. 

In the second place, he had two grounds of hope for 
relief from that situation instead of one, — Don Inigo’s 
ofier and Ginesta’s promise. 

Let us admit frankly that the young man relied less on 
the little gypsy’s influence, notwithstanding the hint she 
had given him of her own story and her mother’s, than 
upon that of Dona Flor’s father. 

And then, too, the heart of man is ungrateful ; perhaps 
Don Fernand, in his then frame of mind, would have 
preferred to receive a benefit from Don Inigo’s hand than 
from Ginesta’s. 

He had understood, by the feeling Don Inigo aroused 
in him, the force of the feeling that he himself inspired 
in the noble old man. 

There was some strange sympathy, something like the 
voice of blood between the two men. 

Don Fernand was roused from his reflections by the 
same noise he had heard before. 

He put his ear to the wall of the grotto, and with the 
lucidity that daylight imparts to the human mind, always 
a little obscured, like nature itself, by the darkness, he 
became more thoroughly convinced that a skilful miner 


174 


THE BRIGAND. 


was working persistently to effect a communication with 
the grotto. 

If the miner accomplished his task, — that is to say, if 
he established communication between a tunnel, as it is 
called strategically, and the grotto, — Don Fernand would 
have to maintain an unequal contest in which he would 
have no chance of success. 

Would it not be better, when night had fallen, to try 
a sortie, and endeavor, with the assistance of the darkness 
and his knowledge of the locality, to reach some other 
part of tlie mountain 1 

But had not the fire, which had licked with tongues of 
flame the vast, almost perpendicular wall, by consuming 
the mastics, myrtles, and creepers that crawled along the 
surface or grew in the crevices, removed every semblance 
of support for the fugitive’s feet and hands ? 

Don Fernand leaned out of the grotto to see whether 
the path Ginesta had followed before the fire was still 
practicable. 

As he was intent upon that investigation a report rang 
out and a bullet flattened against the granite within six 
inches of the spot where his hand was resting. 

Don Fernand looked up. Three soldiers, standing on 
top of a rock, were pointing him out to one another, and 
a tiny cloud of white smoke floating in the air over their 
heads indicated that the shot had come from them. 

The Salteador was discovered. 

But he was not the man to receive such a challenge 
without replying to it. 

He took his arquebus, aimed at that one of the three 
who was just reloading his weapon, and was therefore, 
presumably, the one who had fired. 

He pulled the trigger ; the man threw up his arms, 
dropped the arquebus which had just rendered him such 


THE ASSAULT. 


175 


an ill service, and pitched head foremost down the 
mountain. 

A great shout arose. There was no further doubt : 
the man they were looking for was found. 

Fernand drew back into the grotto to reload his 
arquebus, and, that done, approached the opening once 
more. 

But the two companions of the man he had killed had 
disappeared, and in the whole vast semi-circle overlooked 
by the grotto, as far as his eye could reach, he could see 
nothing. A stone or two, rolling down from the top of 
the mountain and bounding against its sides, were the 
only indication that the troops were assembling above 
Don Fernand’s head. 

The work on the mine still continued. 

It was evident that, the Salteador's hiding-place having 
been discovered, he was to be attacked by every possible 
means. 

He prepared, therefore, for his part, all his means of 
defence, made sure that his Basque dagger worked easily 
in its sheath, that his arquebus was well primed, and 
seated himself on the bed of heather, where he could 
listen to what was going on behind him and see what was 
taking place in front. 

After about half an hour of suspense, during which his 
mind had naturally passed from vigilance to revery, he 
imagined that he saw a shadow pass between himself and 
the light, that an opaque body was swaying at the end of 
a rope at the entrance to the grotto. 

Being unable to ascend to the grotto from below, the 
soldiers had undertaken to descend to it from above ; a 
man, covered with a full suit of armor, almost entirely 
hidden behind a bullet-proof buckler, had attempted 
the feat, made fast to a rope, being tempted by the thou- 


176 


THE BRIGAND. 


sand gold philips promised to the man who should capture 
the Salteador^ dead or alive. 

But just as the soldier, after swinging across the cata- 
ract, was about to step upon the rock, a shot from an 
arquebus filled the grotto with noise and smoke. 

The bullet, powerless to pierce the buckler or find a 
hole in the armor, had contented itself with severing the 
rope just above the head of the man hanging at the end 
of it. 

The soldier fell headlong into the abyss. 

Three more attempts of the same nature were made ; 
all three had the same result. 

Each time a terrible shriek arose from the precipice, 
and was answered by another shriek, like an echo, from 
the top of the mountain. 

Doubtless after these three attempts, fatal to those who 
made them, the besiegers concluded that they must have 
recourse to some other method of attack, for the last 
shrieks were succeeded by absolute silence, and no other 
soldier appeared. 

To be sure, the miner continued his toil underground, 
and the mine made rapid progress. 

With his. ear glued to the wall Don Fernand watched 
the approach of night. The night threatened him with 
an attack from two directions. Under cover of the dark- 
ness the soldiers might succeed in scaling the cliff. At 
all events, the mine was now so near that within an hour 
communication would be opened between it and the 
grotto. 

The Salteador's experienced ear told him that a single 
man was at work at the subterranean task, and that man 
was separated from him by a layer of earth so thin that 
he could tell when he changed from one hand to the 
other. 


THE ASSAULT. 177 

The most astonishing thing was that the noise that 
reached his ears was neither the blow of a mattdck nor 
the bite of a pickaxe; it was rather like a constant 
scratching. 

One would have said that the miner had no other tool 
than his hands for his digging. 

The noise came nearer and nearer. 

For the third time Don Fernand placed his ear to the 
wall. The miner was so near that he could hear his 
hoarse, jerky breathing. 

Fernand listened more attentively than ever ; his eyes 
shot forth flames that lighted up his face ; a smile of joy 
played about his lips. 

He left the back of the grotto, walked out to the slip- 
pery edge of the rock, leaned over and looked into the 
abyss to make sure that he was threatened by no danger 
from without. 

Everything was calm and peaceful ; the pall of night, 
sombre and silent, enveloped the mountain. It was evi- 
dent that the soldiers had abandoned all idea of attack in 
the hope of subduing the brigand by starvation. 

“Oh, give me but half an hour more,” muttered Fer- 
nand, “and I will not thank King Don Carlos for the 
pardon that is being solicited for me at this moment.” 

Thereupon he rushed back into the grotto, his Basque 
dagger in his hand, and began to dig on his side, going to 
meet the person who was coming toward him. 

The two workmen rapidly approached each other. 
After about twenty minutes, the feeble wall that still 
separated them crumbled away, and Fernand, as in all 
probability he anticipated, saw in the aperture the mons- 
trous head of a bear, resting on two enormous paws. 

The animal breathed heavily. His respiration resem- 
bled a roar. It was that noise, well-known to Fernand, 
12 


178 


THE BRIGAND. 


which had betrayed the formidable quarry to the fearless 
hunter. 

Upon that respiration, which he had recognized, Fer- 
nand liad constructed a scheme of flight. 

He had said to himself that the bear’s den was doubt- 
less contiguous to the grotto, and that it would present a 
means of exit not likely to be watched. 

And so, when he saw that his anticipations were real- 
ized by the event, he looked at the monster with a 
smile. 

“ Ah ! ” he muttered, “ I know you, old bear of Mula- 
hacen ! it was you whose trail I was following when 
Ginesta called me; it was you who roared when I at- 
tempted to climb the tree to look at the fire ; and now, 
willing or unwilling, you are going to let me pass. 
Come, make room ! ” 

As he spoke he struck the bear’s muzzle with the point 
of his dagger. 

The blood spurted out ; the animal howled with pain 
and retreated backward into his den, leaving the opening 
clear. 

Fernand glided through the opening with the rapidity 
of a snake and found himself within four paces of the 
bear in his own den ; but the animal had so placed him- 
self as to block his path. 

“Yes,” muttered Fernand; “yes, I know that only one 
of us two will go from here alive ; hut it remains to find 
out whicli one it will be ! ” 

As if he had understood what the hunter said to him, 
the bear replied with a threatening roar. 

Then there was a moment’s silence, during which the 
two adversaries measured each other with their eyes. 
Those of the beast seemed like red-hot coals, 

Neither the one nor the other budged ; you would 


THE ASSAULT. 179 

have said that each was waiting for the other to make a 
false step of which he might take advantage. 

The man became tired first. 

Fernand looked among the ruins of the wall for a 
stone ; chance favored him ; he found by his foot a frag- 
ment about the size of a paving-stone. 

The two blazing eyes served as a target, and the stone, 
thrown with all the force of a machine of war, struck the 
animal's head with a dull thud. 

A bull’s frontal bone would have been crushed by the 
blow. 

The bear fell upon his knees and Fernand saw the 
gleaming eyes disappear for an instant behind their 
drooping lids. 

Then the animal seemed at last to decide to attack, 
and with a terrible roar he stood erect on his hind legs. 

“ Aha ! ” said Fernand, stepping toward him, “ so you 
have made up your mind at last ! ” 

Resting the hilt of his dagger against his breast while 
he turned the point tow^ard his adversary, he continued : 

“ Come on, comrade, let us embrace ! ” 

It was a terrible embrace ! the kiss was deadly ! Fer- 
nand felt the bear’s claws sink into his shoulder ; but the 
bear felt the sharp point of Fernand’s dagger penetrate 
to his heart. 

The man and the animal rolled together on the floor of 
the cavern, which the wounded bear inundated with his 
blood. 


180 


THE BRIGAND. 


XX. 


HOSPITALITY. 

At nightfall Ginesta entered the mountains. 

But before we follow her it will be well for us to pay 
a visit to the house of Don Kuiz de Torrillas, on the 
heels of the grand justiciary of Andalusia. 

The reader will remember perhaps the few words the 
king had said to Don Inigo as he descended the stairs 
from the Queen’s Mirror, behind Ginesta. 

Don Inigo, without pausing to wonder by what strange 
influence the gypsy had succeeded in obtaining from the 
king a favor that the king had refused Don Ruiz and 
himself, had betaken himself at once to Don Ruiz’ house 
on the square of Viva-Rambla near the Granada gate. 

It will be remembered also that the grand justiciary, 
upon coming to Granada to remain as long as Don Carlos 
should tarry in the capital of the Moorish kings, would 
have considered it an insult to his friend Don Ruiz not 
to go at once and ask at his hands the hospitality which 
his old companion-in-arms had once offered him at 
Malaga. 

Consequently, as he had told Don Ruiz on the square 
of Las Algives, he had presented himself with his 
daughter at his friend’s house on the day following his 
arrival, and had demanded the proffered hospitality. 

Dona Mercedes was alone ; for Don Ruiz, as we know, 
had been on the square of Las Algives, awaiting the king, 
since the morning. 


HOSPITALITY. 


181 


Beautiful still, although past forty, Doha Mercedes had 
the reputation of a matron of antiquity ; her life had been 
lived in the sight of all men, pure and stainless, and no 
one in Granada had ever dreamed of suggesting the slight- 
est shadow of a suspicion concerning the wife of Don Kuiz. 

When she saw Don Inigo, Mercedes uttered a stifled 
exclamation and rose ; her face, ordinarily pale, was 
suffused with a sudden flame that disappeared with the 
rapidity of lightning, leaving the lovely face even paler 
than before ; and, strangely enough ! as if the same feel- 
ing that had taken possession of Dona Mercedes had 
acted upon Don Inigo, it was only after a moment’s 
silence, during which Dona Flor gazed in amazement at 
her father and Mercedes, that he recovered the power of 
speech. 

“ Senora,” he said, “ I have come to pass a few days at 
Granada, for the first time since my return from America. 
I should consider that I behaved very ill to an old friend 
if, after that friend had come to Malaga to offer me the 
use of his house, I should take up my quarters at an inn 
or with any other gentleman of my acquaintance.” 

“ Senor,” Mercedes replied, with her eyes fixed on the 
floor, and in a voice whose emotion she tried in vain to 
master, but whose vibrating tones thrilled Dona Flor, — 
“ senor, you are right ; and if you had done otherwise, 
Don Ruiz would certainly say that either he or his wife 
had forfeited your esteem, and as he would be very sure 
that it was not he, he would ask me, as a judge questions 
a prisoner, if it were not I.” 

“That, senora,” replied Don Inigo, lowering his eyes in 
his turn, “ that, over and above the very natural desire to 
see a friend of thirty years’ standing, is the real motive ” 
— he emphasized the last two words — “ the real motive 
that has brought me to your house.” 


182 


THE BEIGAND. 


“ It is well, senor,” said Mercedes ; “ remain here with 
Dona Flor, upon whom I should be only too happy to 
bestow a mother’s love, if she would deign for a moment 
to let me believe that she is my daughter. I go to see 
that the hospitality accorded you in my husband’s house 
is as worthy of you as is possible in the state of decadence 
into which this poor household has fallen by reason of 
my husband’s generosity.’^ 

And Mercedes, bowing to Don Inigo and his daughter, 
left the room. 

In speaking of her husband’s generosity, Dona Mer- 
cedes alluded to what Don Ruiz had told the king touch- 
ing the impoverished condition to which he was reduced 
through having purchased from their families the blood 
of the two alguazils killed by his son, and through having 
paid the dowry of Don Alvar’s sister at her convent. 

This generosity was the more remarkable, and the 
more praiseworthy, too, because, as w'e have said, Don 
Ruiz had never had any great fatherly affection for his 
son. 

A footman, an old retainer of the family, had entered 
the room behind Dona Mercedes, bringing pastry, fruit, 
and wine upon a plate of gilded copper, embellished with 
Arabic paintings. 

The grand justiciary waved the plate away with his 
hand ; but Doha Flor, with the artless greediness of 
birds and children, always ready to taste what one offers 
them, opened a juicy, red pomegranate, and dipped 
her lips, ruddier and fresher if that were possible than 
the hlood of the fruit, in what was called the wine of 
Xeres. 

A quarter of an hour later Dona Mercedes, returning 
to the room, or rather opening the door, invited her 
guests to follow her. 


HOSPITALITY. 


183 


Her bedroom bad become Dona Flor’s ; her husband’s 
had become Don Inigo’s. 

Ifc did not occur, either to Don Inigo or to Dona Flor, 
to apologize for the disturbance they caused in Don Ruiz’ 
household ; hospitality had its laws, which were respected 
by him who received as by him who offered it. Don 
Inigo and Dona Flor would have done as much if they 
had entertained Don Ruiz and Dona Mercedes, instead of 
being entertained by them. 

Don Inigo installed himself in Don Ruiz’ chamber 
while Dona Flor was doing the same in Mercedes’, and, 
laying aside his travelling costume, dressed to go and 
meet the king. 

We have seen him cross the square of Las Algives in 
Don Carlos’s suite, and return to make known his arrival 
to Don Ruiz. 

We know also that an usher, by summoning the grand 
justiciary of Andalusia to attend the king, had disclosed 
to Don Ruiz the title, as yet unannounced, of his old 
friend. 

Don Ruiz returned home so depressed in mind that his 
wife, who saw him enter the house, did not dare meet him ; 
she withdrew to her new apartment, which was above 
her former one, leaving the old servant Vicente to wait 
upon his master, tell him of the change that had taken 
place in the house, and show him to his new apartment. 

The king’s manner, when he referred Don Ruiz to the 
grand justiciary of Andalusia, was so stern that Don 
Ruiz relied but little even upon Don Inigo’s influence to 
obtain his son’s pardon. It was necessary to glance but 
once at the young king’s cold, unmoved face to realize 
what an unbending will was concealed behind that mar- 
ble brow ; so that Don Inigo’s delay did not surprise his 
host ; on the contrary, his surprise knew no bounds when 


184 


THE BRIGAND. 


he saw Dona Flor, with beaming countenance, suddenly 
throw open the door between the two rooms, crying, first 
to Dona Mercedes, then to Don Kniz, — 

“ Oh, come, come ! my father is here with a message 
from King Don Carlos that Senor Don Fernand’s pardon 
is granted.” 

Thereupon they went down into the common reception- 
room. 

“ Good news ! good news ! ” cried Don Inigo, when he 
saw the husband and wife ; “ leave the door open for 
happiness to come in, for happiness is at my heels ! ” 

“ It will be the more welcome guest in this house,” 
replied Don Euiz, “for having been so long a stranger. 

“ The Lord’s mercy is great,” said Mercedes, devoutly ; 
“ and though I were on my death-bed without having 
seen the guest whom you announce, senor, I should still 
hope that it would arrive in time to receive my last 
breath.” 

Thereupon Don Inigo narrated the strange event in all 
its details : how the king had sternly denied his request, 
and how he had granted the pardon to the little gypsy 
who, on her knees, had handed him the ring and the 
parchment. 

Dona Mercedes, to whom, as a mother, no one of the 
details concerning her son was without interest, and who 
was ignorant of what her husband had learned from Don 
Inigo, that he and his daughter had fallen into the Sal- 
teador's hands the day before — Dona Mercedes asked 
who the gypsy was. 

Thereupon Dona Flor took her hand, and said, giving 
to the noble matron the title she had seomed to crave, — 

“ Come, mother ! ” 

And she led Dona Mercedes to her room. 

There, in order to soften as much as possible the pain- 


HCSPITALITY. 


185 


ful features of what she had to tell, Dona Flor knelt at 
the feet of Fernand’s mother, and, with her elbows on 
Mercedes’ knees, her eyes gazing into hers, and her hands 
clasped, she narrated, with all the delicacy of which her 
heart was capable, what had happened to her father and 
herself at the Moorish King Inn. 

And Mercedes listened, with bated breath, her mouth 
half open, shuddering at every word, passing from joy to 
terror, from terror to joy, thanking God with infinite 
gratitude, when she learned that the redoubtable Saltea- 
dor, who had so often been described to her, by those who 
did not know that they were speaking to his mother, 
as a ferocious, implacable assassin, had been gentle and 
kind to Don Inigo and his daughter. 

From that moment a warm attachment for Dona Flor 
had sprung up in Mercedes’ heart ; for a mother’s love is 
such a marvellously inexhaustible treasure that, even 
while she gives all that love to her son, she still finds a 
way to love those who love him. 

And Dona Flor, with a joyous heart and overflowing 
with fondness for Fernand’s mother, passed the evening 
with her head resting against Dona Mercedes’ shoulder, 
as if she were her own mother ; while the two old men 
walked hack and forth under the double row of trees in 
front of the house, talking gravely of the probable future 
of Spain in the hands of the fair-haired and red-bearded 
young king, who bore so little resemblance to the Cas- 
tilian and Arragonese kings, his predecessors. 


186 


THE BRIGAND. 


XXI. 

THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 

Meanwhile, — that is to say, while the two old men 
were talking together, and Dona Mercedes and Doha Dior 
smiling in each other’s faces, in a silence more expres- 
sive than the most eloquent words, — Ginesta, as we 
said at the beginning of the last chapter, entered the 
mountain. 

Within a fourth of a league of the inn she fell in 
with a cordon of troops. 

This time, however, she was looking for them, not 
trying to avoid them. 

“ Oho ! ” they cried, “ here ’s the pretty girl with the 
goat ! ” 

The girl went directly to the officer in command. 

“ Senor captain,” said she, “ read this paper.” 

It was the order not to molest the Salteador^ signed 
and sealed by Don Carlos. 

“The devil!” muttered the officer; “it was hardly 
worth while to burn up seven or eight leagues of forest 
and lose four men. ” 

After reading the document a second time, as if the 
thing seemed so strange to him that he was not con- 
vinced by a first reading, he said to the girl, whom he 
took for an ordinary gypsy , — 

Of course you will undertake to carry this paper to 
him where he now is ? ” 

“ I will,” replied Ginesta, 


THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 


187 


“ Off with you , then ! ” 

Ginesta hurried away. 

" Just let me give you one hit of advice,’’ the officer 
called after her : “ he sure that he knows who you are 
and what your errand is, or he may receive you as he 
received my soldiers.” 

“Oh, I have nothing to fear,” said Ginesta; “he 
knows me.” 

“ By St. James ! I don’t know whether you ought to 
boast of the acquaintance, my pretty child! ” 

And he motioned to her that she was at liberty to 
continue her journey, 

Ginesta was already far away. 

Her path was all marked out for her: the torrent 
offered its foaming, pebble-strewn bed to enter the 
smoking furnace by the same road by which she had 
left it when it was a mass of flames. 

She followed it to the foot of the waterfall. 

There her goat, who was leading the way , took fright 
and ran back to her. 

Ginesta approached. 

Her eyes, which were accustomed to the darkness, 
and could see almost as well as in broad daylight, dis- 
tinguished the form of a dead body. 

It was that of the first soldier who had fallen over the 
precipice. 

She stepped aside to the right, and her foot stumbled 
against a second corpse. 

She darted forward, and was obliged to step over a 
third. 

She could not interrogate death; hut the very silence 
of death told her that there had been a struggle, ay, 
and a terrible struggle. 

What had become of Fernand in that struggle ? 


188 


THE BRIGAND. 


For one moment a cry trembled on her lips, ready to 
ascend to Fernand; but Ginesta reflected that the roar 
of the cataract would cover her voice, and that, even if 
her call did reach him, it might also be heard by those 
who were besieging him. 

And so, silent and light of foot, she darted to the 
wall, Avhich she must scale before reaching the grotto. 

Only a fairy or an angel could undertake such a climb. 

The time that a bird would have taken to cover the 
distance, with the help of his wings, was the time taken 
by Ginesta. 

When her feet touched the projecting rock, she put 
her hand to her heart, for it was beating as if it would 
break the walls of her chest. 

Then she called Fernand. 

Ginesta felt the sweat of agony gather at the roots of 
her hair. A breeze like that which comes through a 
half-open door froze the drops upon her brow. 

She called again. 

The very echo remained dumb. 

In the darkness it seemed to her that she could detect 
a new opening at the back of the grotto. 

She lighted the lamp. 

It was a gaping aperture, and there issued from it 
that mysterious noise which terrifies one because it is 
neither the clamor of life nor the silence of death, but 
the rumbling of the unknown. 

She put her lamp to the opening. 

The draught extinguished it. 

She relighted it, and, sheltering the flame with her 
hand, proceeded from the first grotto into the second. 

The goat would not follow her, but remained on the 
other side of the opening, trembling and bleating 
uneasily. 


THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 


189 


A great heap of earth, all of which had fallen in the 
second grotto, proved to her that the work of establish- 
ing communications had been finished, if not begun, by 
Fernand. 

Then she began to scrutinize the walls of the cavern. 
During the scrutiny her foot slipped on a damp spot. 

She put her lamp to the ground; the ground was all 
soaked with blood. , 

The lamp nearly fell from her hand. 

But she summoned all her strength, and held the 
lamp toward the ceiling in order to light up the whole 
of the den as well as possible. 

A black, hairy mass lay in one corner. 

At the same time the acrid odor exhaled by wild 
beasts reached her nostrils. 

It was that odor which frightened the goat. 

Ginesta drew near the black mass; it did not move. 
As she approached, she recognized the great black bear 
of the mountains. 

She leaned over him and turned the light of her lamp 
upon him. He was dead. 

The blood was flowing from a deep wound below the 
breast, just where his heart lay. 

The gypsy made hold to touch the creature’s body; it 
was still warm. It was not more than an hour, there- 
fore, since the battle took place. 

Thereupon she began to understand. The animal had 
kept in his contracted claws some fragments of cloth 
torn from Fernand’s cloak. Therefore it was with 
Fernand that he had fought. Indeed, who but Fernand 
could have triumphed over such an adversary ? 

With that everything was made clear to her. 

Fernand had been attacked, and had killed the men 
whose bodies she had found. 


190 


THE BRIGAND. 


Then, fearing to be driven to bay in his retreat, he 
had dug that opening. 

The opening had led him into the bear’s den. The 
bear had barred his passage, and he had killed the bear. 

Then he had made his escape through the other 
entrance, which, being hidden from sight in the burn- 
ing bushes, had not been discovered. 

Her assumption was the more certain because the 
bloody imprint of Fernand’s feet could be traced in the 
direction of the second opening. 

The underground passage leading to the outside world 
was from a hundred to a hundred and twenty feet in 
length. 

Ginesta, having entered by the opening beside the 
waterfall, went out by the other opening. 

A party of soldiers was stationed on the summit of 
the mountain, — a proof that Fernand was believed to 
be still in the grotto. 

Here and there some parts of the forest were still in 
flames. They were the places where the fire had en- 
countered groups of resinous trees. 

On all sides columns of white smoke, like tall ghosts 
enveloped in their winding-sheets and with their feet 
rooted in the ground, swayed to and fro in the evening 
breeze. 

Ginesta, herself a thread of vapor, vanished among 
the other vapors. 

The next morning, at daybreak, a young girl, wrapped 
in a mantle that entirely concealed her face, appeared on 
the square of Viva Eambla, knocked at the door of Don 
Kuiz’ house, and asked to be allowed to speak with 
Dona Flor. 

Dona Flor, still happy and smiling over the good 
news Don Inigo had brought the day before, welcomed 


THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 


191 


the gypsy as one welcomes even a stranger when the 
heart is keeping holiday. 

Now, when the heart is keeping holiday, the face 
resembles the windows of an illuminated house; how- 
ever carefully the curtains may he drawn, however care- 
fully closed the shutters, some rays of the light within 
always flash through. 

And they who pass stop when they see those telltale 
rays and say, “ Happy people live in that house ! ” 

At sight of that joyous expression, which made Dona 
rior more beautiful than ever, the gypsy sighed softly. 

Soft as that sigh was. Dona Flor heard it. 

She thought that the girl had come to solicit some 
favor at her hands. 

“ You asked to see me ? ’’ she said. 

“ Yes,” murmured Ginesta. 

“ Come nearer, and tell me what manner of service I 
can render you. ” 

Ginesta shook her head. 

“I have come, senora,” said she, “to render you a 
service, not to ask a favor at your hands.” 

“ To render me a service ? ” exclaimed Dona Flor, in 
amazement. 

“ Yes,” said Ginesta; “ you wonder, do you not, what 
service any one can render the daughter of the wealthy 
and powerful Don Inigo, when she is young and fair 
and beloved by Don Fernand? ” 

Dona Flor blushed, but did not say no. 

“Ah, well,” continued Ginesta, “one may bestow 
upon her a gift of inestimable value : one may give her 
the pardon of the man who loves her.” 

“But I thought,” said Dona Flor, “ that the pardon 
had been carried to Don Fernand, who was in hiding in 
the mountains.” 


192 


THE BRIGAND. 


“Don Fernand,” rejoined Ginesta, sadly, “is no 
longer where I left him; I do not know where Don 
Fernand is.” 

“Great Heaven!” cried Dona Flor, trembling from 
head to foot. 

“ I know simply that he is out of danger, ” continued 
Ginesta. 

“Ah!” murmured Dona Flor, joyously, while the 
smile reappeared on her lips and the carmine on her 
cheeks. 

“ And I have brought the pardon to you, so that you 
may hand it to him.” 

“ The pardon ? ” stammered Dona Flor. “ But I have 
no idea where Don Fernand is. Whom shall I ask? 
Where shall I go to find him ? ” 

“ You love him, and he loves you ! ” said Ginesta. 

“ I cannot say, — I think so; I hope so,” murmured 
Dona Flor. 

“ Then you will certainly find him, as he will seek 
you ! ” 

And Ginesta handed Dona Flor the parchment con- 
taining Don Fernand’s pardon. 

But, although she had taken the utmost pains to con- 
ceal her identity up to that moment, her hood fell away 
when she made that movement, and allowed Dona Flor 
to obtain a glimpse of her face. 

“ Oh ! ” she cried , “ the little gypsy of the Moorish 
King Inn ’ ” 

“ Ko,” replied Ginesta, in a voice in which God alone 
could read all the suffering; “ no. Sister Felippa of the 
Annonciade,” 

The Annonciade .was the convent selected by Don 
Carlos for the gypsy to pass her novitiate and take the 
vows. 


THE KEY. 


193 


XXII. 

THE KEY. 

About midnight Dona Dior left the balcony of the 
apartment she occupied in Don Kuiz’ house. 

It was, the reader will remember, Dona Mercedes’ 
bedroom ; hospitality had offered the guest the best that 
the house afforded. 

Why did Dona Flor leave the balcony so late 1 Why 
did she close the blind so late and with such heedless 
fingers ? 

What had detained her till midnight, with wide-open 
eyes and ears on the alert 1 

Were her eyes awaiting the beautiful star Hesperus, 
that rises in the west ? 

Was her ear listening to the nightingale singing his 
hymn to the night, hidden among the rose-laurels that 
bloomed on the banks of the Darro ? 

Or did her eyes see naught, her ears hear naught, and 
was her mind lost in that dream of sixteen years which 
people call love ? 

Ginesta doubtless was weeping and praying in her 
cell at the Annonciade Convent. 

Dona Flor breathed the cool air and smiled. Per- 
haps she was not in love as yet; but, just as a celestial 
emanation announced the appearance of the angel Gabriel 
to the Virgin Mary, so did a strange perfume reveal to 
Dona Flor the approach of the god Love. 

13 


194 


THE BRIGAND. 


The strangest thing about the young girl was the 
division of affection in her heart between the two young 
men who loved her. 

The man she feared, the man she would have avoided 
if he had made his appearance, the man with whom she 
would have had an instinctive feeling that her maidenly 
modesty was in danger, was that handsome cavalier, 
that gallant love courier, as he had styled himself, who 
had ridden before her on the road from Malaga, — Don 
Kamiro. 

He whom her feet would of themselves have gone out 
to meet, he upon whose shoulder she would have gone 
to sleep without fear, he whom she would have gazed 
at for an hour without a thought of blushing or of cast- 
ing down her eyes, was the highway robber, the brigand 
of the Moorish King Inn, — Don Fernand. 

Dona Flor was in that frame of mind when the soul is 
exalted and the body full of languor, as she approached 
her mirror, the last courtier at night and first in the 
morning, and nodded to her maid to undress her. 

The maid understood so well that any question she 
might ask her mistress when her mind was so preoccu- 
pied would remain unanswered, that she began to pre- 
pare the lovely girl’s night toilet without uttering a 
word. 

As for Dona Flor, never, perhaps, had her eyes, with 
the long velvety lashes, her dilated nostrils, her half- 
opened lips disclosing the enamel line of her teeth, said 
so plainly to the night, “ I am sixteen years old, and 1 
long to love and to be loved.” 

The maid was not mistaken. Women have a mar- 
vellous instinct for divining the presence or even the 
approach of Love. 

She perfumed her mistress, not like a young virgin 


THE KEY. 


195 


about to be put to bed, but like a young bride who 
awaits the coming of her husband. 

Then, with tottering, languid steps, with a thrill at 
her heart. Dona Dior walked to her bed; and, like the 
Borghese hermaphrodite, lay down with her neck thrown 
back a little, and her lovely dark head resting on her 
beautiful white arm. 

She had been slow to reach that point, and yet she 
was in haste to be alone. She had made a sort of soli- 
tude by maintaining perfect silence; but that solitude 
was not sufficient, — she wished to be actually alone. 

She raised her head to follow the last steps of her 
maid, who walked back and forth in the room, looking 
about without any idea what she was looking for, remain- 
ing in order not to go, and deciding at last to leave the 
room, not suspecting that, by so doing, she was gratify- 
ing her mistress’s ardent wish, but, on the other hand, 
quite prepared to return and apologize for leaving her 
alone when she seemed so cast down. 

The maid took away the lamp, leaving the room 
bathed in the pale, fantastic light cast by a night-lamp 
through its alabaster shade. 

And yet, soft as it was, that light was evidently too 
strong for the girl’s eyes, for she raised her head a 
second time, and with a sigh of fatigue drew the cur- 
tain of the bed as a barrier between herself and the 
lamp; so that, while the lower two-thirds of the bed 
were bathed in a flood of bluish light like moonlight, 
the upper third was in darkness. 

Every woman has at some time been fifteen years old, 
every man eighteen, and every man and every woman 
has kept in that corner of the memory that corresponds 
with the heart the recollection of what he saw through 
that door of youth opening upon paradise. We will not 


196 


THE BRIGAND. 


try, therefore, to materialize Dona Dior’s dreams: the 
rose is composed of red and white leaves; a maiden’s 
dream is composed of hope and love. 

Little by little the sweet and lovely child passed from 
waking dreams to the dreams of sleep. Her drooping 
lids closed, her closed lips opened, something like a 
cloud floated between the outer world and her thought; 
she heaved two or three sighs, long-drawn and languish- 
ing, like sighs of love; then the fluttering agitation of 
her breast was succeeded by soft and regular respira- 
tion. The angel who was keeping watch over her put 
his head between the bed-curtains, leaned over her and 
listened. 

She was asleep. 

Ten minutes passed, and no sound disturbed the 
religious silence; then, suddenly, there was the sound 
of a key turning in a lock; the door was cautiously 
opened and closed; a cavalier, wrapped in a long brown 
cloak, appeared in the half-light, turned the key in 
order not to be taken by surprise, stole forward on tip- 
toe, and deposited a kiss on the sleeper’s brow, murmur- 
ing, “ Mother ! ” 

The sleeper started, opened her eyes, and uttered an 
exclamation; the young man, greatly surprised, sprang 
to his feet, letting his cloak fall, and stood forth in the 
light of the night-lamp in a handsome gentleman’s 
costume. 

“ Don Fernand ! ” cried the girl, drawing the counter- 
pane up to her lips. 

" Dona Flor ! ” murmured the stupefied young man. 

“ Why are you here at this hour, senor ? Whom do 
you seek ? What do you want ? ” 

Before replying, the Salteador drew the thick bed- 
curtains together until they touched, enclosing Dona 


THE KEY. 197 

Flor in a tent of brocade; then he stepped hack and 
knelt upon one knee. 

“ I came, senora,'’ he said, “as truly as you are fair 
and as truly as I love you, to hid my mother farewell 
for the last time, and to leave Spain forever ! ” 

“And why do you leave Spain forever, Don Fer- 
nand ? ” the girl asked from her prison of silk and gold. 

“ Because I am proscribed, hunted, a fugitive; be- 
cause my life has been saved by a miracle; because I 
do not wish to inflict upon my parents, my mother 
especially — whose room I had no idea that you were 
occupying — the shame of seeing their son upon the 
scaffold.” 

There was a moment’s silence, during which naught 
could be heard save the hurried beating of the maiden’s 
heart; then the curtains of the bed moved slightly, and 
a white hand holding a paper was passed through the 
opening between them. 

“ Eead ! ” said a trembling voice. 

Don Fernand took the paper without daring to touch 
the hand that gave it, and unfolded it, while the hand 
returned behind the curtains, leaving unclosed the open- 
ing it had made. 

The young man, without leaving his place or chang- 
ing his attitude, held the paper toward the light and 
read : — 

“ We, Charles, by the grace of God King of Spain, Naples, 
and Jerusalem, do hereby declare to all men that we do'grant 
full and entire amnesty for all crimes and misdemeanors he 
may have committed to Don Fernand de Torrillas — ” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Don Fernand, seizing Dona Flor’s hand 
between .the curtains and kissing it; “oh, thanks, 
thanks ! Don Inigo has fulfllled his promise, and you, 


198 


THE BRIGAND. 


like the dove of the ark, are commissioned to bring the 
olive-branch to the poor outlaw.” 

Dona Flor gently withdrew her hand, and said with 
a sigh, — 

“ Alas ! read on. ” 

Don Fernand, surprised by her words, turned his 
eyes once more on the parchment and read on : — 

“ We do further declare, in order that the person named 
in this pardon may know to whom he is indebted therefor, 
that it is granted at the solicitation of the gypsy Ginesta, 
who has bound herself to enter the convent of the Annon- 
ciade to-morrow, and to take the veil there as soon as her 
novitiate shall be at an end. 

“ Given at our palace of the Alhambra, this 9th day of 
June in the year of grace, 1519.” 

“Oh, dear Ginesta!” murmured the brigand; “she 
too promised me ! ” 

“ Do you pity her ? ” demanded Dona Flor. 

“ Not only do I pity her, but I will not accept her 
sacrifice. ” 

“ But if the sacrifice, were made by me, would you 
accept it, Don Fernand?” 

“ Oh, much less; for, if the sacrifice is to be measured 
by the loss it entails, you, who are rich, noble, and 
honored, would lose much more than a poor little gypsy, 
without rank or kindred or future prospects.” 

“ Then that must be why she seemed to be content to 
enter the convent ! ” Dona Flor ventured to say. 

“ Content ! ” repeated Don Fernand, shaking his head ; 
“ do you think it?” 

“She said so; and for a poor, wandering girl, of 
humble birth, who asks alms on the high-roads, a 
convent is a palace.” 


THE KEY. 


199 


“ You are mistaken, Dona Flor,” said the young man, 
distressed by the slighting tone in which Don Inigo’s 
daughter, pure as she was herself, spoke of the devotion 
of one whom she might look upon as a rival, — “you 
are mistaken : Ginesta not only is not a beggar, but she 
is, perhaps, after yourself, one of the wealthiest heiresses 
in Spain. Ginesta is not of humble birth, for she is 
the daughter, and the acknowledged daughter, of Philip 
the Fair. In very truth, for that child of the fresh 
air and the sunlight, that fairy of the mountain, that 
angel of the high-road, even a palace would be a 
prison. Judge, therefore, what a convent is likely to 
be to her. Ah, Dona Flor! Dona Flor! you will be 
none the less beautiful and less dearly loved for 
allowing her love and her devotion to retain all their 
perfume. ” 

Dona Flor sighed. 

“ So you refuse your pardon at the price of her 
sacrifice 1 ” she said. 

“ Man is a sad coward when he is influenced by an 
ardent desire,” was his reply; “ and I am afraid of doing 
a dastardly thing in order to remain with you. Dona 
Flor.” 

The young man heard the long-drawn, shuddering sigh 
of joy. 

“ Then I may tell Dona Mercedes of your return , Don 
Fernand ? ” 

“ I came to announce my departure. Dona Flor ; tell 
her that she will see me to-morrow, or rather to-day. 
You are the angel of good news ! ” 

“ Until later in the day, then,” said Dona Flor, put- 
ting forth her white hand between the curtains for the 
second time. 

“ Until later,” said Fernand, rising and touching his 


200 


THE BRIGAND. 


lips to the hand held out to him, with as much respect 
as if it had been the hand of a queen. 

Picking up his cloak, he wrapped himself in its long 
folds, and, bowing toward the bed with its drawn cur- 
tain as he would have bowed before a throne, he took 
the key from his pocket, opened the door, stopped to 
cast one last glance toward Dona Flor, who followed 
him with her eyes through the opening between the 
curtains, and vanished as noiselessly as a ghost in the 
dark depths of the corridor. 


THE PRODIGAL SON. 


201 


XXIII. 

THE PRODIGAL SON. 

The next day a festal atmosphere, a perfume of happi- 
ness was diffused through the house of Don Kuiz de 
Torrillas. 

Dona Mercedes had informed the old retainers of the 
family — a small remnant as firmly attached to Don 
Kuiz in his adversity as they had been in his more 
prosperous days — Dona Mercedes had informed them 
that she had heard from Don Fernand, and that their 
young master said that he should arrive that very day 
from the long journey that had kept him away from 
Spain for nearly three years. 

It goes without saying that Dona Flor was the mes- 
senger who brought the good news ; so it was that Dona 
Mercedes treated Don Inigo’s daughter as her own child, 
and gave her, in anticipation, all the kisses she would 
have liked to give Don Fernand. 

About nine o’clock in the morning, Don Kuiz, his 
wife, and Beatrice — Mercedes’ old maid and Fernand’s 
nurse — were sitting in the hall on the lower fioor of 
the house, which they had reserved for their own use. 

Dona Flor had come down early in the morning to 
inform them of Don Fernand’s return, without telling 
how she knew it, and had remained with them as one of 
the family. 

Dona Flor and Dona Mercedes were sitting side 
by side. Dona Flor had her hand in Dona Mercedes’ 


202 


THE BEIGAND. 


hand, her head upon her shoulder. The two women 
were talking together in undertones. 

There was evident constraint in Mercedes’ manner, 
however, every time that the young girl uttered Don 
Fernand’s name in a tone that indicated a feeling a 
little warmer, perhaps, than friendship or friendly 
interest. 

Don Euiz was walking hack and forth, his head bent 
forward upon his breast; his long white beard stood out 
against his gold-embroidered black velvet doublet; from 
time to time, when he heard the sharp ring of a horse’s 
shoes upon the pavement of the street, he raised his 
head and listened with contracted brow and dejected 
eye. His face presented a striking contrast to that of 
Dona Mercedes, whereon maternal love was displayed 
in all its expansiveness, and even to that of old Beatrice, 
who had established herself in a corner of the room, 
adjusting her desire to see Don Fernand at the earliest 
possible moment to the respect which bade her keep at 
a distance from her masters and their children. There 
was nothing in Don Ruiz’ face indicative of the joy of 
a father awaiting a son whom he loved so dearly that he 
had sacrificed his fortune for him. 

What was the explanation of the stern expression 
upon Don Ruiz’ face? Was it assumed in preparation 
for the reproaches he would be justified in heaping upon 
the young man, — reproaches which could hardly be rec- 
onciled, however, with the earnestness he had displayed 
in soliciting his son’s pardon ? or was it attributable to 
some other reason, buried in the depths of his heart, 
the secret of which he confided to no one? 

Every time that Don Ruiz raised his head at the 
sound of a horse’s hoofs on the pavement, the two 
women broke off their conversation and listened, with 


THE PRODIGAL SON. 


203 


hearts beating rapidly and eyes fixed on the door, while 
Beatrice ran to the window, hoping to be the first to cry 
to her mistress, “There he is! ” 

The horseman passed on; the horse’s step, instead of 
stopping, died away in the distance. Don Buiz let his 
head fall on his breast once more, and resumed his 
march. Beatrice returned, sighing, from the balcony, 
shaking her head with an expression that said as clearly 
as possible, “It isn’t he! ” and the two women con- 
tinued their confidences under their breath. 

Five or six horsemen had passed in this way ; five or 
six times the same sounds had been repeated, to die away 
in the distance after giving birth to a vain hope in the 
hearts of those who listened, when they heard once more 
the hoof-beats of a horse coming from the direction of 
the Zacatin. 

The stage business, so to speak, that had accompanied 
each previous repetition of the sound, was gone through 
with once more; but this time Beatrice uttered a loud 
cry of joy. 

“ Ah! ” she exclaimed, clapping her hands, “ it is he! 
it is my boy ! I recognize him ! ” 

Mercedes sprang to her feet, carried away by an out- 
burst of motherly love. 

Don Ruiz looked at her with a strange expression as 
she remained where she stood, without taking a step 
toward the door. 

Dona Flor blushed, then turned pale; she had risen 
with Dona Mercedes, but, being less strong than she, 
fell back upon her chair. 

A moment later they saw a horseman ride by the win- 
dows ; and that time the sound of the horse’s hoofs did 
not pass the door, whose bronze knocker rang through 
the house. 


204 


THE BKIGAND. 


But not one of the persons who, with such different 
emotions, awaited the arrival of the man who had just 
raised the door-knocker, changed the attitude he or she 
had assumed; their faces alone betrayed the thoughts of 
the three women and the man who, with true Spanish 
gravity and in accordance with the strict etiquette in 
vogue in the sixteenth century, not only at court, but 
in all noble families, held them in subjection with his 
glance. 

They heard the street door open and steps approach- 
ing; Don Fernand appeared, but, as if he shared the 
general feeling of constraint , paused upon the threshold. 

He was dressed in a handsome travelling costume, and 
had all the appearance of a man just returned from a 
long journey. 

He cast a rapid glance about the room, and upon the 
persons who were awaiting him there. Don Buiz was 
the first upon whom his eye fell; then, at Don Kuiz’ 
left and in the foreground, the two women, his mother 
and Dona Flor, supporting each other; and lastly, in 
the background, old Beatrice, as motionless in his 
presence as she had been excited in anticipation of his 
coming. 

In that glance, rapid as it was, every one had his part. 
For Don Buiz it was cold but respectful; for Dona 
Mercedes, Icfving and eloquent; for Dona Flor, impas- 
sioned and full of tender memories; for Beatrice, 
affectionate. 

Then, bowing before his father, Don Fernand began, 
as if he were returning from an ordinary journey, — 

“ Senor, blessed be the day when you permit my filial 
love to kneel at your feet, for that day is the happiest 
of my life ! ” 

And as he spoke , the young man , with evident repug- 


THE PEODIGAL SON. 205 

nance, but as if he were performing an obligatory cere- 
mony, put one knee to the floor. 

Don Euiz gazed at him for a moment in that humble 
posture, and in a voice that accorded ill with his words, 
for the words were affectionate and the voice retained 
some harshness of accent, he said, — 

“ Kise, Don Fernand; welcome to this house, where a 
father and mother have long been anxiously awaiting 
you. ” 

“ Senor,” the young man replied, “ something tells me 
that I should remain on my knees before my father, so 
long as he does not give me his hand to kiss.” 

The old man stepped forward toward his son. 

“Here is my hand,” he said; “and may God make 
you as virtuous as I urgently entreat Him to do from the 
bottom of my heart ! ” 

Don Fernand took his father’s hand and touched it 
with his lips. 

“How,” said the old man, “enter the house and kiss 
your mother’s hand.” 

The young man rose, saluted Don Euiz, and approached 
his mother. 

“Senora, with fear and trembling, and with a heart 
overflowing with shame, I appear before your eyes, which 
I — may God and you forgive me, senora ! — have caused 
to shed so many tears ! ” 

Thereupon he knelt on both knees, holding out both 
arms to Dona Mercedes, and waited. 

She walked toward him, and with the sweet maternal 
inflection, which, even when it utters a reproach, still 
seems a caress, — 

“Fernand,” she said, putting both her hands to her 
son’s lips, “ in addition to the tears of which you speak, 
I owe to you those I shed at this moment, and, believe 


206 


THE BRIGAND. 


me, my beloved child, if the first were very bitter, the 
others are very sweet! ” Gazing into his face with the 
most loving smile of a woman and a mother, she added, 
" Welcome, child of my heart ! ’’ 

Dona Flor stood behind Mercedes. 

“Senora,” said Don Fernand, “I know what your 
illustrious father, Don Inigo, intended to do for me; in 
my eyes the intention is equivalent to the deed; accept, 
therefore, in his name, all the gratitude I offer to you 
both.” 

Instead of asking leave to kiss the maiden’s hand, as 
he had done in the case of Don Euiz and Dona Mercedes, 
the young man took a faded flower from his breast and 
passionately pressed it to his lips. 

Dona Flor blushed and stepped back: she recognized 
the anemone that she had given the brigand at the 
inn. 

Thereupon the old nurse, impatient for her turn, came 
forward. 

“ Senora,” she said to Dona Mercedes, “ am not I in a 
way the dear child’s mother? ” 

“ Senior,” said Fernand, turning to Don Kuiz, and at 
the same time holding out his arms to his nurse, with 
the smile of his childhood days, “ will you not permit 
me, notwithstanding your respected presence, to embrace 
this good woman ? ” 

Don Euiz nodded. 

Beatrice threw herself into his arms whom she called 
her son, and pressed him again and again to her breast, 
accompanying each embrace with one of those heartfelt, 
resounding smacks to which the common people have 
given the tender name of nurse’s kisses. 

“Ah me! ” murmured Dona Mercedes, seeing in the 
nurse’s arms the child who, in Don Euiz’ presence. 


THE PRODIGAL SON. 


207 


had dared to do no more than kiss her hand, “ she is 
certainly the happiest of us all ! ” 

And two envious tears rolled down her maternal 
cheeks. Don Euiz had not for an instant removed his 
melancholy glance from the picture we have tried to 
sketch. 

At sight of the tears on Dona Mercedes’ cheeks, his 
features contracted, and he closed his eyes for an instant 
as if some memory, like a venomous serpent, had bitten 
him to the heart. 

He made a violent effort over himself; his mouth 
opened and closed; his lips trembled, but no sound 
issued from them. 

You would have said that his stomach was making 
fruitless efforts to throw off the poison he had swallowed. 

But Dona Mercedes’ eyes had taken in every detail of 
the scene , even as Don Euiz’ had done. 

“ Don Demand,” she said, “ I think that your father 
wishes to speak to you. ” 

Don Fernand turned to the old man, and, with down- 
cast eyes, signified by a movement of his head and 
shoulders that he was listening. 

But a visible impatience was concealed beneath his 
apparent humility, and any one who could have trans- 
lated the thoughts that the impulses of his heart com- 
municated to his mind, might have seen that the sermon 
the prodigal son was expecting to receive, inevitable as 
it seemed to him, was none the less disagreeable, espe- 
cially in Dona Flor’s presence. 

With the delicacy of perception peculiar to her sex, 
she detected that feeling. 

“Excuse me,” she said; “I think I heard the door. 
Probably it was my father coming in ; I will go and tell 
him the good news of Don Fernand’s return.” 


208 


THE BEIGAND. 


Thereupon she pressed Mercedes’ hand, saluted the 
old man, and left the room without looking at Don 
Fernand, who, with bowed head, awaited the paternal 
discourse with more resignation than respect. 

But when Dona Flor had gone, his breast dilated, 
and he breathed more freely. 

The old man himself seemed more at his ease the 
moment that the auditors and spectators were reduced 
to the members of his family. 

“Don Fernand,” he said, “you must have noticed, 
upon entering the house, the changes that have taken 
place during your absence; our fortune is exhausted; 
our property — and that is what I least regret — is 
either sold or pledged; Don Alvar’s sister having con- 
sented to enter a convent, I provided a dowry for her; 
the families of the dead alguazils having accepted a 
pecuniary penalty, I paid them a considerable sum in 
cash and agreed to pay a certain yearly sum in addition; 
hut, in order to do it, your mother and I were compelled 
to reduce ourselves almost to poverty.” 

Don Fernand made a movement that expressed regret, 
at least, if not penitence; hut Don Ruiz continued with 
a noble gesture, accompanied by a melancholy smile, — 

“We will say no more of that; it is all forgotten 
since you are pardoned, my- son ! and I thank King Don 
Carlos most humbly for that pardon. From this moment 
I hid adieu to past sorrows, and they are to me as if they 
had never existed; but what I wished to ask you, with 
tears in my eyes, Don Fernand, what I wished to ask 
you with affectionate entreaty, what I would ask you, 
kneeling at your feet, if it were not repugnant to nature 
to see the father kneeling to the son , the old man abased 
before the young man, white hair imploring dark hair, — 
what I wished to ask you, my son, is this: that you 


THE PRODIGAL SON. 


209 


would work, and I will assist you with all my strength, 
to reconquer public esteem; so that even your enemies 
may see that the bitter lessons of misfortune are never 
wasted with a noble heart and an intelligent mind. 
Thus far, Don Fernand, we have been simply father 
and son; that is not enough; from this time forth, let 
us be friends! Tt may be that there are some unpleasant 
memories between us; do you banish them, and so will 
I; let us live at peace, doing all that we can for each 
other. I will try to bestow upon you the three senti- 
ments that a father owes his son: love, regard, devo- 
tion; I ask of you only a single one in exchange; at 
your age, the age of headstrong passions, a man has not 
the same power over himself as a man advanced in years; 
I ask nothing of you save obedience, binding myself 
never to ask of you anything that is not fair and honor- 
able. Excuse me if I have been longer than I intended, 
Don Fernand; old age is loquacious.” 

“ Senor,” replied Don Fernand, bowing, “I pledge 
you my word that from this day you shall have no cause 
to reproach me, and that I will turn my misfortunes to 
such good account that you will rejoice that they befell 
me.” 

“ Tt is well, Fernand,” said Don Kuiz; “now you 
have my permission to embrace your mother.” 

Mercedes uttered a joyful cry and held out her arms 
to her son. 


14 


210 


THE BKIGAND. 


XXIY. 

DON RAMIRO. 

The spectacle of a motlier embracing her son, with tears 
of love, however touching it may be to other men, evi- 
dently made a painful impression upon the dejected 
glance of Don Kuiz, for he left the room silently, and 
old Beatrice alone saw him go. 

Left alone with his mother and his nurse, the young 
man told his mother all that had taken place the night 
before, and — without saying aught of the strange feeling 
he had for Dona Dior — how he had come to see her 
during the night, as usual, and had found her room occu- 
pied by her fair guest. 

Thereupon Dona Mercedes led her son to her new 
apartment. His mother’s room in that house was to Don 
Fernand what tlie sanctuary in a church is to a devout 
heart. There it was that as a child, as a boy, as a young 
man, he had passed his pleasantest hours ; there only had 
his capricious heart beaten at ease, his vagabond thoughts 
dared to take their flight, like the birds, born in one 
hemisphere, which ' at a certain season of the year, take 
flight to unknown regions in the other. 

There, lying at her feet as in the days of youth and 
innocence, kissing the maternal knees in that fulness of 
happiness which he had not felt for so long a time, Fer- 
nand, wdth more pride than shame, told his mother of his 
adventurous life, from the moment of his flight to that of 
his return to the house. 


DON EAMIRO. 


211 


Hitherto he had constantly avoided the subject in his 
interviews with his mother; a man does not tell. of a 
painful dream while the dream lasts, hut when he is 
once awake, the more terrible the dream has been, the 
more delight he has in relating it and laughing at the 
nocturnal mirage that terrified him so. 

Mercedes listened to her son, hanging on his lips ; but, 
when he came to his meeting with Don Inigo and Dona 
Dior, the interest taken by Mercedes in his narrative 
seemed to become even greater than before; the color 
came and went in her cheeks. Don Fernand could feel 
her breast rising and falling under his head ; and when he 
spoke of the strange sympathetic feeling that had taken 
possession of him at the sight of Don Inigo, the almost 
irresistible impulse to throw himself, a suppliant, at 
Dona Flor’s feet, she put her hand over his mouth as if 
to beg for a truce. 

It was evident that she was at the end of her strength 
and could hear no more. 

Then, when she had removed her hand, came the 
story of the danger he had incurred, the flight to the 
mountain, the fire, the taking refuge in the gypsy’s grotto, 
the attack by the troops, and, lastly, the battle with the 
hear. 

When the last words had died away on Fernand’s lips, 
Mercedes rose, pale and trembling, and tottered to a cor- 
ner of the room, which she had transformed into an 
oratory, and there she knelt and prayed. 

Don Fernand stood watching her, with deep respect, 
when he felt that a hand was laid softly on his shoulder. 
He turned. It was his old nurse’s hand. She came to 
inform him that one of his best friends, Don Ramiro, 
having heard of his return, was in the salon and desired 
to speak with him. 


212 


THE BRIGAND. 


The young man left Mercedes to her prayers ; he was 
well aware that she was praying for him. 

Don Ramiro, arrayed in a bewitching morning costume, 
was lolling carelessly in a large easy-chair, awaiting his 
friend’s coming. 

The two young men, who had formerly been very close 
friends and had not seen each other for three years, ex- 
changed a warm embrace. 

Then ensued the inevitable questions. 

Don Ramiro knew of Fernand’s amour with Dona 
Estefania, his duel with Don Alvar, and his flight after 
his adversary’s death; but at that point all certain in- 
formation stopped. 

The general report, however, was that Don Fernand 
had visited France and Italy after the duel ; he had been 
seen, it was said, at the court of Francis I. and of Lo- 
renzo II., whose great fame is due to his having been the 
father of Catherine de’ Medici, and to his having left be- 
hind him a, bust of himself carved by Michael Angelo. 

That is what Don Ramiro believed. 

No one had been sufficiently near to Don Ruiz and the 
king to hear their conversation ; consequently, even those 
who had seen the old man kneeling at Don Carlos’s feet 
supposed that he had asked for nothing more than his 
son’s pardon for the murder of Don Alvar. 

Fernand left Don Ramiro in his error. 

Then, partly from curiosity and partly to change the 
conversation, he took his turn at questioning Don 
Ramiro. 

“You are welcome,” he said; “I should have sent 
word to you of my return.” 

But Don Ramiro shook his head with a melancholy 
expression. 

“ I can hardly be welcome, ” he said, “ as I bear in my 


DON RAMIRO. 213 

heart a sentiment that has caused me more trouble than 
joy up to the present time.” 

Fernand saw that Don Eamiro, unlike himself, had a 
full heart and asked nothing better than to confide to him 
the feelings with which it was filled. 

He smiled and held out his hand. 

“ My dear friend, ” he said, “ we are of those whose 
hearts and passions need fresh air. It is stifling in this 
room ; would you not prefer to tell me of your adventures 
in the fine tree-lined avenue in front of the house ? ” 

“Yes,” said Don Eamiro, “especially as I may per- 
haps see her while I am talking with you.” 

“ Oho ! ” rejoined Don Fernand, with a laugh, “ so she 
lives on this square?” 

“ Come, ” said Eamiro. “ In a moment you shall 
know not only all that has happened to me, but the ser- 
vice I expect of you.” 

The young men went out arm in arm, and began their 
promenade, which, as if they had agreed beforehand, did 
not extend beyond the facade of the house in either 
direction. 

From time to time, moreover, each of them looked up at 
the windows on the first floor. But as neither inquired 
of the other the cause of that movement, it led to no ex- 
planation during the silence that they both maintained at 
first. 

At last Don Eamiro could contain himself no longer. 

“ Fernand, my friend, ” he said, “ I believe we came out 
here, you to listen to what I had to say, and I to say it.” 

“ Therefore , dear Eamiro, I am all attention, ” said 
Fernand. 

“ Ah, my friend, ” rejoined Eamiro, “ what a cruel 
tyrant Love is, and how like slaves he treats the hearts 
over which he reigns ! ” 


214 


THE BRIGAND. 


Don Fernand smiled as if he were of the same 
opinion. 

“ And yet, ” he said, “ when one is loved — " 

“ Ay, ” said Ramiro ; “ but, although I have every 
reason to hope that I am, I doubt it still.” 

“You doubt it, Don Ramiro ? Why, if I remember 
aright, at the time of our separation modesty in matters 
of love was not placed by the ladies in the list of faults 
with which they charged you.” 

“ That was because I had never loved until I saw hev^ 
Don Fernand ! ” 

“ Well, well, ” said Don Fernand, “ tell me how you 
fell in with this marvel of beauty whose influence has 
transformed the haughty Don Ramiro into the most 
modest man in Andalusia.” 

“ Why, my dear fellow, I first saw her as one sees a 
fiower lost among the leaves, a star veiled by a cloud: 
I was walking through the streets of Toledo one evening, 
when, through a halfiopened blind, I saw the most won- 
derfully beautiful face that ever made glad the heart of 
man. I was on horseback; spell-bound, I stopped my 
horse. She evidently mistook for impertinence what 
was simply admiration, for she closed her blind, although, 
lost in wonder and with clasped hands, I begged her not 
to do it.” 

“ Oh, the cruel creature! ” laughed Don Fernand. 

“ I remained more than an hour in front of that win- 
dow, always hoping that she would open it again; hut 
my waiting was fruitless. Then I looked for the en- 
trance door of the house; but I saw that the facade I 
was facing had no other openings than windows,” 

“ Was it an enchanted house, pray ? ” 

“ No, and I understood at once, as it was a deserted 
side street through which I was riding, that the house 


DON RAMIRO. 


215 


must be entered from another street. It was because she 
was protected by that isolation, doubtless, that my fair 
imknown had ventured to open her window. I con- 
cluded from that circumstance, however, that she was 
not under the guardianship of a very stern father or a 
very jealous governor, as she was allowed to open the 
blind of a window only twelve or fifteen feet from the 
ground. As for her being married, I did not so much as 
think of it; she seemed to be hardly fourteen years old.” 

“ But I know you, Don Bamiro ! ” said Fernand : “ you 
are not, or rather, for love seems to have wrought a great 
change in you, you were not, the man to argue long with 
yourself over the solution of such a problem. Every 
maiden — it is a favor that we owe to nature or to society 
— every maiden has a duenna; every duenna has her 
failing; that failing has a lock, and that lock is opened 
with a golden key.” 

“ I thought so too, dear Don Fernand ; but that time 
I was mistaken.” 

“ Poor Don Kamiro, that was playing in hard luck ! so 
that you were not able even to find out who she was, eh 1 ” 

“ Oh, yes, I was, and I had no need to bribe valet or 
duenna for that; I made the circuit of the quarter, and I 
found myself in a wide, handsome street on the other 
side of the house. It was a veritable palace. I inquired 
among the neighbors and I learned that it belonged — ” 

“ The girl or the house ? ” 

“ Both, i’ faith ! — that they belonged to an enor- 
mously rich stranger, returned from the Indies within a 
year or two, whom, in view of his reputation for wisdom 
and justice. Cardinal Ximenes had summoned from 
Malaga, where he lived, to join the council of regency. 
Can you guess who he was, Don Fernand 1 ” 

“ Faith ! I have not the least idea.” 


216 


THE BRIGAND. 




“ Impossible ! ” 

“ You forget, my dear Don Kamiro, that I have been 
absent from Spain two years, and that I know almost 
nothing of what has happened in those two years.” 

“ True ; and your ignorance will assist me very mate- 
rially, I confess, in the latter part of my story. There 
were two ways of reaching my fair unknown: to take 
advantage of my birth and position to obtain an introduc- 
tion to the father and through him to the daughter; or 
else to watch for the opening of that blind through which 
shone the rays of her beauty, as the prisoner, at his 
barred window, watches for a ray of sunlight. I em- 
ployed the first method. My father in his youth had 
known the illustrious personage with whom 1 had to do. 
I wrote to him. He sent me a letter. I was cordially 
received; but it was the daughter, not the father, whom 
I wished to see ; and, whether by her father’s command 
or from love of retirement, the daughter obstinately 
remained shut up in her own apartments. I resorted to 
the second method, the mysterious method, which was 
to surprise a glance from her at night, when, believing 
herself alone, she inhaled at her window the fresh, per- 
fumed air that blows from the Tagus. Indeed, is not 
that method always the best, and does not every maiden 
gaze with greater interest and attention on the gallant 
who draws rein under her balcony on a lovely starlit 
night or a night of tempest, than on him who is pre- 
sented to her in a boudoir or salon 1 ” 

“ You have always been a very keen observer where 
women are concerned, Don Ramiro. Go on, I pray; for 
I doubt not that you succeeded.” 

Don Earairo shook his head. 

“ I neither succeeded nor failed altogether, ” he said. 
“ Two or three times, hidden by a corner of the wall, I 


DON RAMIRO. 


217 


succeeded in drawing back out of sight swiftly enough to 
be able to see her; but no sooner did I show myself than 
the open blind was closed, without undue haste, without 
anger. ” 

“ And could you not see whether she continued to look 
at you through the blind ? ” 

“ That, I confess, was the one hope that sustained me 
for a long while ; but one day, after an absence of a week 
which T could not avoid, I returned and found the house 
tightly closed, doors and windows. Neither old man nor 
maiden nor duenna appeared by day; no light shone 
within the house at night; you would have said it was a 
tomb. I made inquiries. The council of regency hav- 
ing been dissolved by the arrival of King Don Carlos in 
Spain, and by his approach to Toledo, the father of my 
infanta had returned to Malaga. I followed him to 
Malaga; I would have followed him to the end of the 
world. There the same expedients were renewed, but, I 
hope, with better success. In the first place, she with- 
drew less quickly and I was able to say a few words to 
her; then I threw bouquets on her balcony; at first she 
pushed them away with her foot, then seemed to take no 
notice of them, and at last picked them up. Once or 
twice she even answered my questions ; hut as if confused 
by her complaisance, as if terrified by the sound of her 
voice, she withdrew almost instantly, and her words were 
rather like the lightning flash that makes the night less 
dark than like the dawn that ushers in the day. ” 

“ And matters went on so — ? ” queried Don Fernand. 

“ Down to the moment when her father received the 
king’s command to come to Granada.” 

“ 0 poor Don Kamiro ! ” laughed Fernand; “ so that, 
one fine morning, you found the house at Malaga closed 
like that at Toledo 1 ” 


218 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ Nay ! That time she did me the favor to inform me 
of the hour fixed for their departure and the route they 
were to take ; so that, instead of following her, I deter- 
mined to go before her. That gave me a great advan- 
tage, you see; every halt that she made would recall me 
to her memory ; every room in which she stopped would 
speak to her of me. I became a courier — but a love 
courier.” 

“ Aha ! ” said Fernand ; but Bamiro was so intent upon 
his story that he did not notice the change that had 
taken place in his friend’s voice since he last spoke. 

“ Yes, you know, there is almost nothing ready in our 
wretched inns; so I ordered their meals. I knew her 
favorite perfume, — I carry it around my neck in a gold 
box; I burned it in the halls she would have to pass 
through, in the rooms in which she would rest. I knew 
her favorite flowers, and from Malaga to Granada she 
walked on nothing but flowers ! ” 

“ And how does it happen that so gallant a knight as 
Don Kamiro can need the help of a friend, having so 
many resources in himself ? ” asked Don Fernand, in a 
voice over which he had less and less control. 

“ Ah, my dear Don Fernand, chance, no, I am wrong, 
Providence has combined two coincidences which should, 
unless some unforeseen catastrophe interferes, lead me 
straight to happiness.” 

“ What are these coincidences ? ” queried Fernand, 
passing his hand across his forehead to wipe away the 
perspiration that covered it. 

“ The father of her I love is your father’s friend ; and 
you, my dear Fernand, like an angel of salvation, arrived 
this morning.” 

“Well, what then?” 

“ Why, as your father has offered his hospitality — ” 


DON EAMIRO. 219 

“ So, ” said Don Fernand, grinding his teeth with jeal- 
ousy, “ she whom you love — ? ” 

“ Why, do you not guess, my dear friend ? ” 

Don Fernand frowned upon tlie young man who chose 
so ill his time to call him by that name. 

“ I guess nothing, ” he retorted with a threatening ex- 
pression, “ and you must tell me everything. What is 
the name of your beloved, Don Eamiro ? ” 

“ Is it necessary to tell you the name of the sun, when 
you feel his warmth and are dazzled by his rays ? Look 
up, Don Fernand, and endure, if you can, the sight of 
the star that burns my heart ! ” 

Don Fernand raised his eyes and saw Dona Flor lean- 
ing over her balcony and looking at him with a sweet 
smile ; hut, as if she were waiting only until she should 
be discovered, she had no sooner exchanged a swift 
glance with Don Fernand than she drew back and they 
heard the sound of her window closing. 

But the window did not close so quickly that a flower 
did not fall from it. 

That flower was an anemone. 


220 


THE BRIGAND. 


XXV. 


THE AXEMONE. 

The two young men darted forward, moved by a com- 
mon impulse to pick up the flower that had fallen, by 
chance or by design, from the girl’s hand. 

Don Fernand, being nearer to the window, obtained 
possession of the anemone. 

“Thanks, dear Fernand,” said Kamiro, putting out 
his hand; “give me that flower.” 

“Why should I give it to you, pray?” demanded 
Fernand. 

“Why, because I am inclined to think that it was 
dropped for me.” 

“ Who told you that?” 

“ No one; but who tells me that it was not? ” 

“ Some one who is not afraid, perhaps, to tell you so 
to your face.” 

“Who?” 

“II ” 

Don Kamiro stared at Don Fernand in bewilderment, 
and noticed then, for the first time, his pallor and the 
convulsive trembling of his lips. 

“You! ” he said, recoiling a step; “ why you? ” 

“ Because — this woman that you love — I also love 
her! ” 

“ You love Dona Flor ? ” cried Don Kamiro. 

“ I love her I ” Don Fernand repeated. 

“ Where did you see her ? How long ago did you first 
see her ? ” demanded Kamiro, turning as pale as the other. 


THE ANEMONE. 


221 


“ What does it matter to you ? ” 

" Why, I have loved her two years! ” 

“ Perhaps I have known her only two days; hut sup- 
pose that in those two days I have done more than you 
in two years ? ” 

“ Prove that to me, Don Fernand, or I will proclaim 
aloud that you have insolently attacked a young girl’s 
reputation.” 

“ You told me that you rode before her from Malaga 
to Granada, did you not? ” 

“I told you so.” 

“ You passed the Moorish King Inn ? ” 

“ I stopped there.” 

“ You ordered dinner for Don Inigo and his daugh- 
ter; you burned perfumes and left a bouquet there? ” 
«Yes.” 

“ There was an anemone in the bouquet. ” 

" What then ? ” 

“ She gave me that anemone. ” 

“ With her own hand ? ” 

Even so ! — and it is here on my heart, where it has 
withered as this one will wither there.” 

“ You stole the anemone, took it from the bouquet 
without her knowledge, picked it up on the road where 
she accidentally dropped it; confess that, and I will 
pardon you.” 

“ In the first place, only from God or the king would 
I accept a pardon,” replied the young man, proudly; 
“and as for the flower, she gave it to me.” 

“ You lie, Don Fernand,” said Eamiro ; “ and you have 
stolen this second flower, just as you stole the first ! ” 
Don Fernand uttered a wrathful exclamation, and, 
drawing his sword with his right hand, threw the fresh 
flower and the faded one at Don Kamiro’s feet. 


222 


THE BEIGAND. 


“Very well, so be it!” he said; “given or stolen, 
there they both lie on the ground. The one who is 
living five minutes hence may pick them up.” 

“Agreed!” said Don Eamiro, stepping back and 
drawing his sword. “ That is the sort of bargain I 
like ! ” 

With that he addressed the gentlemen who were 
walking on the square, and who, attracted by the gleam 
of naked swords, had turned toward them. 

“Hola! Caballeros,” he said; “come this way, so 
that we need not fight without witnesses, and, if Don 
Fernand kills me, it may not be said that he murdered 
me, as it has been said that he murdered Don Alvar.” 

“ So be it, let them come,” said Don Fernand; “ for I 
swear to God, Don Eamiro, that what they will see will 
be well worth seeing! ” 

And the two young men, standing five paces apart, 
lowered the points of their swords and waited until a 
circle was formed about them. 

When the circle was formed, a voice exclaimed, — 

“ Begin, senors.” 

Water does not rush forward more madly when it 
breaks its dike than the young men rushed upon each 
other. At that moment a shriek rang out from behind 
the blind; but while it made both combatants raise 
their heads, it not only did not stop the combat, but 
seemed to have no other result than to augment its 
violence. 

Don Fernand and Don Eamiro were two of the most 
fearless and most skilful young gentlemen on earth. 
Neither of them certainly had any rival in respect of 
those two qualities in Andalusia, and, to encounter 
any serious resistance, they must needs fight each 
other. 


THE ANEMONE. . 223 

And so, as Don Fernand had predicted, what the 
gentlemen saw was worth seeing. 

The two swords met and crossed with such rapidity 
and ferocity that one might well have thought for a 
moment that the steel, from which sparks flew in 
showers, was animated by the same passions as the men 
who held it. All the resources of art, address, and 
strength were displayed during the few minutes that the 
first passage lasted, during which neither of the com- 
batants, motionless as the trees in whose shade they 
were fighting, made a single backward step; indeed, it 
almost seemed as if there were no further danger, and 
as if the spectators might watch the battle, desperate as 
it was, with the same feeling that they would watch a 
bout with buttoned foils at a fencing school. It is 
true, also, that such encounters were a part of the man- 
ners of the time, and that few days passed without such 
a spectacle as that presented by Don Fernand and Don 
Ramiro. The interval was short. Time to breathe was 
all that either asked, and, despite the shouts of, “ Take 
your time! take your time!’’ from the spectators, they 
hurled themselves upon each other with renewed fury. 
But the swords had hardly met the second time when a 
breathless voice was heard exclaiming, — 

“ Stay, Don Fernand ! stay, Don Ramiro! ’’ 

All heads were turned in the direction from which 
the voice came. 

“ Don Ruiz de Torrillas! ” cried the spectators, stand- 
ing aside. 

And, in a moment, Don Ruiz stood in the centre of 
the circle on his son’s side. Warned, doubtless, by 
Dona FI or, he had hurried out to separate the 
combatants. 

" Stay your hands! ” he repeated imperatively. 


224 


THE BRIGAND. 


“Father! ” muttered Don Fernand, impatiently. 

“ Senor! ” said Don Kamiro, with respect. 

“ I have no commands to lay upon Don Eamiro,” said 
the old man; “ but you, Don Fernand, are my son, and 
to you I say, ‘ Stay your hand ! ’ ” 

“ Stay, senors ! ” echoed all the bystanders. 

“How now, unhappy boy! ” cried Don Ruiz, clasp- 
ing his hands before him ; “ can you not conquer your 
fatal passions? Pardoned only yesterday for duelling, 
can you think of committing a like crime to-day ? ” 

“ Father ! father ! ” murmured Don Fernand , “ let me 
alone, I beg you ! ” 

“ Here, in the street, in the broad light of day ! ” 
cried Don Ruiz, wringing his hands. 

“ Why not? It was here, in the street, in the broad 
light of day, that the insult was offered. They were 
witnesses of the insult; let them be witnesses of the 
vengeance ! ” 

“ Sheathe your sword, Don Fernand ! ” 

“ On guard, on guard, Don Ramiro ! ” 

“ Do you disobey me ? ” 

“ Do you think that I will allow you to deprive me 
of the honor you have transmitted to me, as your father 
received it from his ancestors ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Don Ruiz, “ would to God you had 
retained a spark of the honor I transmitted to you ! ” 
The old man turned to Don Ramiro. 

“Senor Don Ramiro,” he said, “as my son has no 
respect for the white hairs and trembling hands that 
appeal to him, although they are those of a father, do 
you listen to me, and let those about us see that a stranger 
shows greater respect to me than my own son. ” 

“ Yes ! yes ! ” said the spectators; “ listen to him, Don 
Ramiro! ” 


THE ANEMONE. 225 

Don Eamiro stepped back, lowered his sword, and 
bowed. 

“ You have done well to appeal to me, Don Euiz de 
Torrillas,” he said; “you have done well to rely upon 
me, senores. The world is wide; the mountains are 
deserted; I shall meet my adversary in some other 
place.” 

“ Ah! ” cried Don Demand, “ that is a clever way of 
disguising one’s fear, upon my word!” 

Don Eamiro, who had already sheathed his sword 
and had already stepped back, was on guard again in an 
instant, sword in hand. 

“I afraid?” he said. 

The spectators murmured, evidently blaming Don 
Fernand, and two of the oldest or wisest among them 
made a movement as if to intervene between the young 
men. 

But Don Euiz de Torrillas, with a gesture, begged 
them to stand aside. 

The two gentlemen obeyed in silence. 

Again the clash of the swords was heard. 

Don Euiz took one step toward his son. 

Don Fernand, with clenched teeth and flashing eye, 
pale with rage, attacked his adversary with a violence 
that would have been fatal to a man less sure of his 
hand than he. 

“Madman,” said his father; “what! when you see 
that a stranger respects and obeys me, do you disobey 
me and defy me ? ” 

With that he raised the cane he held in his hand. 

“By the living God! ” he cried, in an outburst of 
excitement that made his eyes flash with the fire of 
youth, “ I do not know why I refrain from teaching you 
your duty in public. ” 


15 


226 


THE BRIGAND. 


Don Fernand turned half around without removing 
his blade from his opponent’s. 

He saw the cane raised in his father’s hand; his face, 
which was deadly pale, became purple, his blood poured 
so swiftly into his heart and rushed violently thence to 
his extremities. 

There was something very like hate on the old man’s 
face; Fernand’s imitated it, and assumed a similar 
expression. 

It seemed as if any one who had been imprudent enough 
to pass between the flashes that shot from their eyes 
would have been struck dead. 

“ Beware, father! ” said the young man, in a trembling 
voice, and shaking his head. 

“ Sheathe your sword I ” said Don Euiz. 

“First lower your cane, father! ” 

“ First obey , unhappy boy ! when I order you to 
obey.” 

“ Father ! ” muttered Don Fernand, becoming pale as 
death. once more, “do not keep your cane raised against 
me, or, by the living God ! I shall go to some extremity.” 

He turned to Don Ramiro. “Oh, do not go, Don 
Ramiro,” he said; “I can face an old man’s cane and 
a coxcomb’s sword at the same time.” 

“ You hear, senores ! ” cried Don Ramiro. “ What am 
I to do?” 

“Do as your heart bids you; act according to the 
affront you have received, Senor Don Ramiro,” said the 
gentlemen, stepping hack and abandoning all thought of 
averting the results of the duel. 

“ Ungrateful, wicked youth! ” cried Don Ruiz, still 
holding his cane over his son’s head, “ can you not learn 
from your opponent how a son should act before his 
father ? ” 


THE ANEMONE. 


227 


“ No,” retorted Don Fernand; “for my opponent has 
given way from cowardice, and I do not class cowardice 
among the manly virtues. ” 

“ The man who thinks or says that I am a coward — ” 

“Lies, Don Ramiro,” the old man interposed; “it is 
for me to say it, not you.” 

“Oh, let us have done with this!” cried Don Fer- 
nand, with one of the roars of rage with which he 
answered wild beasts when he fought with them. 

“For the last time, villain! will you obey me? will 
you sheathe your sword?” persisted Don Ruiz, more 
threateningly than ever. 

And it was evident that, if Don Fernand did not obey 
on the moment, on the second, the degrading cane would 
fall upon him. 

But, with the swiftness of thought, he pushed Don 
Ruiz away with the back of his left hand, while with 
the right hand, making a clever feint, he ran his sword 
through his opponent’s arm ; Don Ramiro parried too late. 

Don Ramiro remained on his feet; but the old man 
fell, so violent was the blow dealt him. 

He had received it fairly in the face. 

The spectators uttered a cry of horror; the son had 
struck his father. 

“ Room ! room ! ” roared Don Fernand, pouncing upon 
the two flowers, which he picked up and hid in his 
breast. 

“Oh, may Heaven crush you, infamous villain!” 
cried Don Ruiz, trying to rise; “ yes. Heaven, in default 
of men, for the cause of an outraged father is the cause 
of Heaven ! ” 

“ Death to him ! death to the sacrilegious son who 
has raised his hand against his father ! ” cried the by- 
standers, with one voice. 


228 


THE BEIGAND. 


And one and all drew their swords and surrounded 
Don Fernand. 

For an instant was heard the clashing of ten swords 
against one; then, as the maddened hoar rushes through 
the helpless pack, so the Salteador, with inflamed eye 
and foaming at the mouth, rushed through the opposing 
circle. 

He passed close to the prostrate Don Fuiz, darted at 
the old man a glance in which there was more hatred 
than repentance, and disappeared in one of the narrow 
streets leading to the Zacatin. 


THE MALEDICTION. 


229 


XXVI. 

THE MALEDICTION. 

The spectators of this scene — wherein every spectator 
had eventually become an actor — were struck dumb. 

Don Eamiro alone, wrapping his cloak around his 
bleeding right arm, walked toward the old man and 
said, offering him his left hand, — 

“ Senor, will you do me the honor to accept this hand 
to assist you to rise ? ” 

Don Kuiz took the offered hand, and rose with diffi- 
culty. 

“Oh, ungrateful, unnatural son!” he cried, extend- 
ing his hand in the direction in which Don Fernand 
had disappeared, “may God’s vengeance pursue you 
wherever you fly ! May your hand, which has profaned 
my white hair and covered my face with blood, be 
powerless to defend or avenge you against these swords 
drawn by the hands of strangers in my defence ! and 
may God, seeing your sacrilege, take from you the air 
you breathe, the light that shines for you, and the earth 
that bears you! ” 

“ Senor,” said one of the gentlemen, respectfully, 
approaching Don Ruiz, “here is your hat.” 

“Senor,” said a second, approaching with the same 
respect, “ shall I fasten the clasp of your cloak ? ” 

“ Senor,” said a third, “ here is your cane.” 

At that word Don Ruiz seemed to throw off his 
torpor. 


230 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ A cane ! ” he repeated ; “ of what use is a cane to 
me ? A sword is what I need ! 0 Cid ! 0 Cid Cam- 

peador! see how we are changed since you rendered up 
your great soul to God ! In your days sons avenged the 
insults that strangers put upon their fathers; to-day 
strangers avenge the insults fathers receive from their 
sons. ” 

He turned to the gentleman who handed him his 
cane. 

“ Yes, yes ! give it me,” he said; “ an insult inflicted 
with the hand should he avenged with the cane. With 
this cane, therefore, I will wreak my vengeance on you, 
Don Fernand. But I deceived myself; how can this 
cane avenge me, when, as soon as I have it in my hand, 
I use it, not for purposes of attack, but to lean upon? 
How can I avenge myself if the instrument of my ven- 
geance, powerless to strike the man I pursue, serves 
only to strike the ground, as if to say, ‘ Earth! earth! 
open the door of the tomb for the old man, my 
master ! ’ ” 

“ Senor, senor, be calm! ” said one of the spectators. 
‘‘ Dona Mercedes, your wife, is hurrying hither, follow’ed 
by a girl as beautiful as the angels. ” 

Don Kuiz turned and met Dona Mercedes’ eyes with 
such a look in his own that she stopped and clung trem- 
bling to the arm of Dona Flor, beautiful as the angels, 
as the gentleman had said, but pale as a statue. 

“What is the matter, monsenor?” she asked Don 
Buiz. “ In Heaven’s name, what has happeijed? ” 

“ The matter, madame,” cried Don Buiz, whose wrath 
seemed to gather fresh strength in his wife’s presence, 
— “ the matter is that your son has struck me in the 
face ; that the blood has flowed beneath the hand of him 
who calls me father, and that, when I had. fallen under 


THE MALEDICTION. 


231 


the blow I received, it was not he, but Don Eamiro, 
who put forth his hand to lift me up! Madame, thank 
Don Eamiro, who gave his hand to your husband when 
he lay prostrate beneath the hand of your son.” 

“ Oh, calm yourself, calm yourself, senor ! ” implored 
Dona Mercedes ; “ see all these people standing about us.” 

“ Let them come ! let them draw near ! for they come 
to defend me I Come, one and all! ” cried Don Euiz, 
“ and know from my own mouth, learn by my own voice, 
that I am an infamous man, who has been struck in the 
face! Ay, men! look at me, and tremble to have 
sons! Ay, women! look at me, and tremble to give 
birth to children who, to reward you for twenty-five 
years of sacrifices, care, and suffering, beat your hus- 
bands! I have appealed for justice to the Supreme 
Master, and I appeal for justice to you; and if you do 
not promise me on the instant that you will take it upon 
yourselves to see that justice is done the outraged father, 
— why, I will appeal to the king! ” 

And, as the terror-stricken throng remained speech- 
less in face of that crushing despair, he cried, — 

“ Ah! you, too, deny me justice! Then I appeal to 
King Don Carlos. King Don Carlos! King Don 
Carlos! justice! justice!” 

“ Who calls King Don Carlos? ” said a voice. “ Who 
seeks justice at his hands? He is here.” 

The crowd instantly parted; and through the path 
thus opened, a young man came forward, dressed in a 
simple gentleman’s costume, — a young man, whose 
flashing eye and pale, fair face were hidden beneath a 
broad-brimmed felt hat, while a dark cloak enveloped 
and concealed his figure. 

Behind him, dressed in a costume as simple as his 
own, walked the grand justiciary. 


232 


THE BEIGAND. 


“ The king! ” cried the crowd. 

“ The king! ” stammered Dona Mercedes, turning pale. 

“ The king ! ” echoed Don Euiz, with an accent of 
triumph. 

A great circle was formed in a twinkling, with the 
king and Don Inigo, Don Duiz, and Dona Mercedes 
leaning on Dona Elor’s arm, in the centre. 

“Who demanded justice? ” the king asked. 

“ I, sire,” said Don Kuiz. 

The king looked at him. 

“Aha! you again? Yesterday you asked for a par- 
don; to-day you ask for justice! Have you always 
something to ask ? ” 

“Yes, sire; and this time I will not leave Your 
Majesty until you have granted what I ask.” 

“If what you ask is just,” the king replied, “you 
will have no difficulty in obtaining it.” 

“ Your Majesty shall he the judge,” said Don Ruiz. 

Don Inigo made a sign for the crowd to withdraw, 
so that the words of the complainant should reach the 
king’s ear alone. 

“ No, no,” said Don Ruiz; “ I wish every one to hear 
what I have to say, so that, when I have finished, every 
one may bear witness that it is the truth.” 

“ Remain, all, and listen,” said the king. 

“Sire,” continued Don Ruiz, “is it true that you 
have forbidden duelling in your dominions ? ” 

“ It is true, and this very morning I ordered Don 
Inigo to prosecute duellists without truce or pity.” 

“ Well, sire, a moment since, here, upon this square, 
beneath the windows of my house, two young men were 
fighting, surrounded by a circle of gentlemen.” 

“ Oho ! ” said the king, “ until this moment I have 
always supposed that they who chose to disobey a king’s 


THE MALEDICTION. 


233 


edicts selected some isolated spot, where the solitude 
would at least make it possible that the crime should 
remain unknown. ” 

“Even so; but these young men, sire, had selected 
the most frequented square in Granada and tlie bright 
sunlight to settle their dispute.’’ 

“ You hear, Don Inigo ? ” said the king, turning half 
around. 

“ My God ! my God ! ” murmured Dona Mercedes. 

“ Can he intend to denounce his son, madame ? ” asked 
Dona Flor. 

“ The subject of their quarrel is of little conse- 
quence,” continued Don Kuiz, with a glance at the 
grand justiciary, indicating that he kept the secret for 
the honor of his family. “ I do not know nor do I care 
to know what it was ; what I do know is that two young 
gentlemen were fighting fiercely, with drawn swords, 
before my door.” 

Don Carlos frowned. . 

“ And you did not come out ? ” he said; “ you did not 
cast the weight of your name and the authority of your 
gray hairs between the swords of those young madmen ? 
In that case, you are as guilty as they; for whoever 
gives countenance to a duel or does not oppose it, is an 
accessory thereto.” 

“I came out, sire, and I approached the young men 
and bade them put up their swords; one of them obeyed 
me.” 

“It is well,” said the king: “that one shall be less 
severely punished ; but the other ? ” 

" The other refused to obey me, sire ; the other con- 
tinued to provoke his opponent; the other, by his 
insults, forced his opponent, who had already sheathed 
his sword, to draw it anew, and the fight went on.” 


234 


THE BEIGAND. 


“You hear, Don Inigo? Despite Don Kuiz^ remon- 
strances, the fight went on. What did you do then ? ” 
the king asked, turning to the old man once more. 

“After imploring, sire, I threatened; after threaten- 
ing, I raised my cane.” 

“ And then?” 

“He who had already withdrawn once, withdrew a 
second time.” 

“ And the other ? ” 

“ The other, sire — the other struck me in the face ! ” 

“ A young man struck an old man, a rico hombre^ 
Don Ruiz ? ” 

And Don Carlos’s eyes questioned the crowd, as if he 
expected that the spectators would contradict Don Ruiz. 

But all mouths remained closed, and, in the silence. 
Dona Flor’s stifled sighs and Mercedes’ restrained sobs 
could be heard. 

“ Go on,” said the king to Don Ruiz. 

“ Sire, what penalty does a young man incur who 
strikes an old man ? ” 

“ If he is a plebeian, the scourge on the public square, 
and a place in my galleys between a Turk from Algiers 
and a Moor from Tunis; if he is of noble birth, he is 
subject to imprisonment for life and public degradation.” 

“ And suppose that he who dealt the blow was the 
son,” continued Don Ruiz, with a sombre expression, 
“ and he who received it the father ? ” 

“ What do you say, old man ? I do not understand 
Spanish readily, and I cannot have heard aright.” 

Don Ruiz repeated slowly, and in a voice whose every 
syllable echoed painfully in the hearts of the two 
women, — 

“ Suppose that he who dealt the blow was the son, 
and that he who received it was the father ? ” 


THE MALEDICTION. 


235 


A murmur ran through the crowd. 

The king recoiled a step, and gazed at the old man 
with an incredulous expression. 

“ Impossible ! ” he said. 

“ Sire,” said Don Ttuiz, with one knee on the ground, 
“ I solicited at your hands the pardon of my son , a mur- 
derer and robber! Sire, I now solicit at your hands 
justice against the child who raised his hand against 
his father! ” 

“ 0 Don Duiz! Don Ruiz! ” cried Don Carlos, laying 
aside for a moment the calm, cold serenity beneath which 
he concealed his real sentiments ; “ do you know that 
you are demanding your son’s death?” 

“I do not know, sire, what penalty is visited upon 
such a crime in Spain, for it has no prototype, and will 
be likely to have no imitators ; but this is what I say 
to you, 0 my king: Disregarding the sacred command 
which comes first after those of the Church, my son Don 
Fernand has dared to raise his hand against me; and, 
as I cannot wreak vengeance for the crime with my own 
hand, I have come to you to lodge my complaint against 
the culprit; and if you deny me justice, why, then, sire, 
— listen to the threat an outraged father makes against 
his king, — if you deny me justice, I will appeal from 
Don Carlos to God! Sire,” he added, rising from his 
knees, “ you have heard me: now it is your affair, not 
mine. ” 

And he withdrew, following the path that the silent 
throng opened before him, every man uncovering and 
bowing low before the outraged father. 

Mercedes, seeing Don Ruiz pass without speaking to 
her or looking at her, fainted in Dona Flor’s arms. 

Don Carlos cast upon the afflicted group one of the 
sidelong glances which were peculiar to him, then turned 


236 


THE BRIGAND. 


to Don Inigo, who was paler and more agitated than if 
he liad been the person accused. 

“Don Inigo,” said he. 

“ Sire,” the grand justiciary replied. 

“ Is not yonder woman the mother ? ” 

And he pointed, over his shoulder, to Dona Mercedes. 

“Yes, sire,” faltered Don Inigo. 

“Very good. As you are my grand justiciary,” con- 
tinued Don Carlos, after a pause, “ this affair is for you 
to deal with. Make use of all the means that are at 
your disposal, and do not appear before me until the 
culprit is arrested.” 

“ Sire,” said Don Inigo, “ rest assured that I will use 
all possible diligence.” 

“ Do so, and without delay, for this matter is of more 
importance to me than you imagine.” 

“ Why so, sire ? ” the grand justiciary asked in a 
trembling voice. 

“ Because, as I reflect upon what has happened, I can- 
not think that such an accusation was ever brought 
before any king known to history.” 

He walked away, deep in thought, muttering, — 

“ What is the meaning of this, 0 Lord ? A son has 
struck his father! ” 

The king sought from God the explanation of a mys- 
tery to which men could not give him the key. 

Don Inigo meanwhile remained where he stood, as if 
rooted to the spot. 


RIVER AND MOUNTAIN TORRENT. 


237 


XXVII. 

RIVER AND MOUNTAIN TORRENT. 

There are predestined existences: some roll on with 
the moderation and majesty of the vast rivers, like the 
Amazon and Mississippi, which flow through thousands 
of leagues of level fields between their headwaters and 
the sea, and carry vessels as large as cities, laden with 
passengers in sufficient number to found a colony. 

Others, which take their sources on the highest moun- 
tain-tops, rush headlong down in cataracts, in foam- 
ing torrents, and after a course of only ten or fifteen 
leagues, plunge into some stream, or river, or lake, which 
absorbs them, and where all that is left for them to do 
is to agitate and disturb for some little time the waters 
with which they mingle. 

For the traveller to follow the former in all their 
windings, to describe their banks and inspect their sur- 
roundings, weeks, months, ay, years are required; for 
the pedestrian to follow the irregular course of the latter 
requires only a few days: the spring becomes a cascade, 
the cascade becomes a cataract, the cataract becomes a 
mountain torrent, and all are born and die within a 
space of ten leagues and in the course of a week. 

But during that week the pedestrian who has fol- 
lowed the banks of the rushing stream has experienced 
more emotion perhaps than he who has followed the 
banks of the great river for a whole year. 


238 


THE BRIGAND. 


The tale that we have undertaken to tell our readers 
belongs to the category of cascades, cataracts, and tor- 
rents ; from the very first page the incidents rush head- 
long, foaming and roaring to the last. 

For those who are carried onward by the hand of God, 
all the rules of motion are transposed, and, when they 
have reached their goal, it seems to them that they have 
made the journey, not on foot, not on horseback, not 
in a carriage, but in some fantastic machine, rolling 
through cities, villages, and fields, like a locomotive 
emitting smoke and flame, or in a balloon sailing so 
rapidly through the air that plains, villages, cities, van- 
ish like mere specks lost in space ; so that the strongest 
are attacked by vertigo and every breast is oppressed. 

We have now accomplished two-thirds of the terrible 
journey; and — except for the cool-headed pilot called 
Don Carlos, who under the name of Charles V. is 
destined to brood over public cataclysms as he is brood- 
ing to-day over private disasters — every one had left or 
was about to leave the square where the last events we 
have described had taken place, with sorrowful heart 
and bewildered brain. 

We have seen Don Fernand take his leave first of all; 
then Don Fuiz, cursing his son, threatening his king, 
invoking his God; and lastly, the king, always calm, but 
more sombre than usual, because of the terrible thought 
that during his reign a son had committed the crime, 
hitherto unknown, of dealing a blow at his father, 
ascended at a slow, tranquil gait the slope leading to 
the Alhambra, whither he was returning after visiting 
the prisons with the grand justiciary. 

The only actors interested in the scene just enacted, 
who still remained standing, as if turned to stone in the 
midst of the crowd, whose eyes were fixed upon them 


BIVER AND MOUNTAIN TORRENT. 


239 


with wonder and sorrow, were Mercedes, almost fainting 
on Dona Flor’s shoulder, and Don Inigo, stricken dumb, 
as it were, by the king’s words: “ Do not appear before 
me until the culprit is arrested.” 

So he must arrest the man for whom he had such a 
profoundly sympathetic feeling; the man whose pardon 
he had once so urgently solicited, to no effect, when he 
was guilty only of crimes which offend man, and whose 
punishment was far more inevitable now that he had 
committed one of those sacrilegious acts which offend 
God, — he must arrest him, or else, himself a rebellious 
subject and accessory to one of the greatest crimes that 
ever shocked human sensibility, he could never again 
appear before his king. 

And perhaps, in his heart, he was inclined to adopt 
the latter alternative; for, postponing until later the 
issuance of the necessary orders for Fernand’s arrest, he 
hurried, first of all, into the house to procure for Dona 
Mercedes the assistance that her condition demanded. 

The most essential thing was to take her to her room, 
but, strangely enough! when Don Inigo, strong and 
vigorous as a young man, had approached Don Fernand’s 
mother with the purpose of carrying her into the house. 
Dona Mercedes, starting at the sound of his steps, had 
opened her eyes with an expression almost resembling 
terror. 

“ No, no! ” she said, “ no, not you! not you! ” 

And Don Inigo bowed to that strange manifestation 
of repugnance, and went to summon Don Fernand’s 
nurse and Vicente, the old retainer, who had been Kuiz’ 
squire during the war with the Moors, while Dona 
Flor, overwhelmed with surprise, murmured in an 
undertone, — 

“ Why not my father, senora ? ” 


240 


THE BRIGAND. 


But Mercedes, closing her eyes and summoning all 
her strength, although she still acted as if she were in 
a swoon, attempted, with Doha Flor’s assistance, to 
walk slowly toward the house ; so that she had almost 
reached the door when the two servants came out to 
help her. 

Doha Flor would have entered the house with 
Mercedes, but her father stopped her at the door. 

" We have entered this house for the last time, ” said 
Don Inigo; “say farewell to Doha Mercedes, and join 
me here.” 

“ Say farewell to her ! entered the house for the last 
time! Why so, father? ” 

“ Can I remain beneath the roof of the mother whose 
son I am to doom to death ? ” 

“To death! Don Fernand!” cried the girl, turning 
pale ; “ you think that the king will sentence Don 
Fernand to death ? ” 

“ If there were a punishment worse than death Don 
Fernand would have to undergo that.” 

“ Father, could you not go to your friend, Don Buiz, 
and move him ? ” 

“ I cannot. ” 

“ Cannot Dona Mercedes go to her husband and induce 
him to withdraw his complaint ? ” 

Don Inigo shook his head. 

“ She cannot. ” 

“ Oh , my God ! ” cried the girl , darting into the 
house, “oh, I will go and appeal to a mother’s heart, 
and I hope that that heart will find a way to save her 
son.” 

Dona Mercedes was sitting in the same room on the 
ground-floor where she had stood before her son, an hour 
before, compressing with her hand the joyous beating of 


EIVER AND MOUNTAIN TORRENT. 241 


her heart; again her hand was pressed against her heart, 
hut this time to prevent its bursting with agony. 

" Mother, mother,” said Dona Dior, “ is there no way 
of saving Don Fernand 1 ” 

“ Did your father give you any hope, my child 1 ” she 
asked. 

“ No.” 

“ Believe what your father says, my poor girl.” 

She began to sob bitterly. 

“But, madame,” urged Dona Flor, “it seems to me 
that if, after twenty years of married life, you should 
appeal to Don Buiz — ” 

“ He would refuse me.” 

“ A father is always a father, madame. ” 

“ Yes, a father,” said Mercedes. 

And she dropped her head between her hands. 

“No matter, madame, make the trial, I implore you ! ” 

Mercedes sat for a moment lost in thought. 

“ It is not my right, but it is my duty,” she said at 
last. 

She called the old squire. 

“ Vicente, where is your master? ” she said. 

“ He went to his room, madame, and locked himself 
in.” 

“You see,” said Mercedes, grasping at the excuse 
offered her. 

“Beg him, with your sweet voice, to open the door, 
madame, and he will open it.” 

Mercedes tried to rise, and fell back on her chair. 

“ I have nH the strength,” she said; “ you see.” 

“I will assist you, madame,” said the young girl, 
putting her arm around Mercedes, and lifting her with 
a strength one would not have expected to find in that 
frail body. 


16 


242 


THE BRIGAND. 


Mercedes sighed, and allowed herself to be led. 

Five minutes later the weeping mother and lover 
knocked at Don Kuiz’ door. 

“Who is there?” Don Ruiz demanded in a dull 
voice. 

“ I,” replied Dona Mercedes, almost inaudibly. 

“ Who are you ? ” 

“His mother.” 

They heard something like a groan inside the room ; 
then slow, heavy steps approached, and the door opened. 

Don Ruiz appeared, with haggard eye and dishevelled 
hair and beard. He seemed to have aged ten years in 
half an hour. 

“You?” he said. “But you are not alone,” he 
added, as he caught sight of Dona Flor ; “ I was sur- 
prised that you dared to come alone.” 

“ To save my child I would dare do anything I ” said 
Mercedes. 

“ Enter, then, but alone.” 

“Don Ruiz,” murmured Dona Flor, “will you not 
permit your friend’s daughter to add her prayers to those 
of a mother? ” 

“ If Dona Mercedes is willing to say before you what 
she has to say to me, enter.” 

“ Oh, no, no ! ” cried Mercedes, “ I enter alone, or not 
at all ! ” 

“Alone, then, madame,” said Dona Flor, bowing to 
the unhappy mother’s desire, and recoiling before the 
gesture of Don Ruiz, who waved her back. 

The door closed upon Mercedes. 

Dona Flor remained where she stood, bewildered by 
this domestic drama which was being enacted before her, 
but which she did not understand. 

She seemed to be listening, but she was not listening. 


EIVER AND MOUNTAIN TORRENT. 


243 


The beating of her own heart atoned for the silence of 
her mouth. 

And yet it seemed to her that she heard Mercedes’ 
plaintive, hesitating tone succeed the hollow, threaten- 
ing voice of Don E-uiz. Then she heard the sound of 
a fall that made the floor groan. 

It occurred to her that the sound was occasioned by 
Dona Mercedes falling to the floor. 

She ran to the door and opened it; Mercedes was, in 
truth, lying at full length on the floor. 

She ran to her and tried to raise her ; but Don Euiz 
motioned to her. It was evident that Mercedes had 
fallen under the weight of an emotion she could not 
endure. 

Don Ruiz was standing some ten feet away, and if 
the fall had been caused by any violence on his part, he 
would not have had time to walk so far. Moreover, 
with an expression in which affection was not altogether 
lacking, he took her in his arms and carried her into the 
dressing-room, where he laid her on a sort of divan. 

“ Poor woman ! poor woman ! ” he muttered. 

Then he returned to his bedroom and locked himself 
in once more, without a word to the young girl, and as 
indifferent to her presence as if he were alone. 

After some five minutes Mercedes opened her eyes, 
collected her thoughts, tried to remember, with the help of 
external objects, recognized where she was, recalled the 
errand that had brought her there, and rose to her feet. 

“Oh, I knew it! I knew it!” she murmured, shak- 
ing her head. 

Still leaning upon Dona Flor, she returned to her 
room and fell upon a chair. 

At that moment they heard Don Inigo’s voice at the 
door, which he dared not pass, — 


244 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ My child, my child, we can remain here no longer.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Mercedes, hastily, “ go ! ” 

The maiden fell upon her knees. 

“ Madame,” said she, “ give me your blessing, so that 
what I am about to try may meet with more success than 
what you have just tried.” 

Mercedes placed her hands lightly on the girl’s head, 
and said in a dying voice, — 

“ May God bless you as I bless you ! ” 

Whereupon Dona Flor rose, walked unsteadily to the 
door, took her father’s arm, and went with him from 
the house. 

But they had taken only a few steps in the street 
when she stopped. 

“ Where are you going, father? ” she asked. 

“ To occupy the apartments the king ordered prepared 
for us at the Alhambra, to which I preferred those 
offered me by Don Ruiz.” 

“Very well, father; I would make no change in the 
route you propose to take; but let me call at the convent 
of the Annonciade, as we pass.” 

“Yes,” said Don Inigo; “that is, in truth, a last 
resort. ” 

Five minutes later the portress at the convent admitted 
Dona Flor, while her father stood against the wall, 
awaiting her exit. 


THE BOAK KEEPS THE DOGS AT BAY. 245 


XXYIII. 

THE BOAR KEEPS THE DOGS AT BAT. 

Don Inigo had been standing there bnt a few moments 
when it seemed to him as if the whole population was 
hurrying curiously toward the Granada gate. 

He followed the crowd with his eyes, at first with the 
vague glance of the man whose mind is engrossed by 
more serious interests than those which move the mob; 
but finally, compelled by the uproar and bustle all about 
him to pay more serious attention to what was taking 
place, he made inquiries as to the causes of the 
excitement. 

He then learned that a nobleman, against whom an 
order of arrest had been issued, had refused to give him- 
self up, and, having taken refuge in the Vela Tower, was 
defending himself with desperation against the men who 
were trying to capture him. 

The first thought that was likely to come to Don 
Inigo’s mind, and that did in fact so come, was that the 
nobleman in question was Don Fernand. Without an 
instant’s loss of time, he darted in the direction in which 
the people were going. As he ascended the slope leading 
to the Alhambra, the crowd became more dense and the 
uproar greater; at last, with great difficulty, Don Inigo 
forced his way to the square of Las Algives. 

There the main action of the drama was taking place; 
like a raging, roaring sea, the mob was laying siege to the 
Vela Tower. 


246 


THE BRIGAND. 


From time to time the crowd parted to make room for 
a wounded man who retreated with his hand upon his 
wound, or for a dead body that was being removed. 

The grand justiciary made inquiries and learned what 
we are about to narrate. 

A young gentleman, pursued by five or six of his own 
class, being tired of running, had taken refuge in the 
tower and awaited his pursuers there. 

Thereupon the combat had begun with fatal fury. 
Perhaps, if he had had to do only with the five or six 
gentlemen who were pursuing him at first, the fugitive 
would have triumphed over them ; but, at the cries of the 
assailants, the clashing of swords, the insults answered by 
threats, the soldiers on guard at the palace had hurried to 
the spot, and, having been informed that the gentleman 
was subject to an order of arrest signed by the king him- 
self, they had joined the assailants. 

A desperate struggle had ensued. 

Don Fernand — for it was he — had taken up his 
position on the narrow winding stairway, which led to 
the platform two floors above ; there he hg,d found it an 
easy matter to defend himself; he had contested the 
ground step by step, and on every step a man had fallen. 

The battle had lasted an hour when Don Inigo arrived. 
He approached the tower, trembling with apprehension, 
and yet retaining some slight hope that the fugitive was 
not Don Fernand; but that hope was of short duration. 

He had hardly set foot inside the tower when he 
heard the young man’s voice above the tumult. 

“ Come on ! come on, cowards ! ” he shouted. “ I am 
alone against you all ! I shall leave my life here, I 
know that ; but there are not enough of you yet to make 
up the price at which I propose to sell it ! ” 

It was certainly he. 


THE BOAK KEEPS THE DOGS AT BAY. 247 


If things were left to follow their present course, it 
was impossible, as Don Fernand himself had said, that 
he should escape death. Death was inevitable and near 
at hand. 

On the contrary, if Don Inigo should succeed in arrest- 
ing him, there was still the one last chance of reprieve that 
always exists for the condemned man in a mother’s love 
and the clemency of a king. 

Therefore Don Inigo resolved to put an end to the 
combat. 

“ Stay ! ” he cried to the attacking party ; “ I am Don 
Inigo Velasco, grand justiciary of Andalusia, and I 
come from King Don Carlos.” 

But it was no easjT matter thus to calm the wrath of 
a score of men held at bay by a single man. 

" Death ! death ! ” replied five or six voices, while a 
shriek of pain and the sound of a body rolling down the 
stairs indicated that Don Fernand’s sword had found a new 
victim. 

“ Do you not hear me 1 ” cried Don Inigo, in a loud 
voice. “ I tell you that I am the grand justiciary, and that 
I come in the king’s name.” 

“ No ! ” said one of the assailants, “ let the king allow 
us to do justice ourselves, and justice will be well 
■ done.” 

“Beware, my masters! ” said Don Inigo, who asked 
nothing better than to turn his wrath from the fugitive 
to his pursuers. 

“ But what do you want 1 ” asked several voices. 

“ That you should let me pass.” 

“What for?” 

“ To demand the rebel’s sword.” 

“Indeed, that will be an interesting spectacle,” said 
come ; “ let him pass.” 


248 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ How now, ” cried Don Fernand, “ do you hesitate ? 
Do you recoil ? 0 you wretches ! 0 you cowards ! ” 

And another shriek of pain indicated that the young 
man’s sword was buried anew in living flesh. 

The result was a fresh clamor, and again the clash of 
steel on steel was heard. 

“ Do not kill him ! do not kill him ! ” cried Don Inigo, 
in despair. “ I must take him alive.” 

“ Alive ! ” shouted Don Fernand; “ did I not hear one 
of you say that he would take me alive ? ” 

“ Yes, I ! ” cried the grand justiciary, from the foot of 
the stairs. 

“You! Who are you? ” demanded Fernand. 

“ I am Don Inigo. " 

Don Fernand felt a shudder run through every limb. 

“ Ah 1 ” he muttered, “ I recognized your voice before 
you told me your name. Well, what do you want with 
me? ” he added aloud. “Come up, but come alone.” 

“ Gentlemen, ” said Don Inigo, “ allow me to pass.” 

Don Inigo spoke in such a commanding tone that 
every one made way for him, standing close against the 
wall of the narrow staircase. 

Don Inigo began to ascend, step by step ; but on every 
stair lay a dead or wounded man. He was obliged to 
step over ten bodies to reach the first landing, where Don 
Fernand awaited him. 

The young man’s left arm was wrapped in his cloak, 
of which he had made a buckler; his clothes were torn, 
and the blood was flowing from two or three wounds. 

“ What do you want with me, ” he demanded of Don 
Inigo, — “you who have caused me more fear with a 
single word than those fellows with their weapons ? ” 

“What I want,” said the grand justiciary, “is that 
you should give up your sword to me.” 


THE BOAR KEEPS THE DOGS AT BAY. 249 


“ My sword ” repeated Don Fernand, with a roar of 
laughter. 

“What I want,” continued Don Inigo, “is that you 
should cease to defend yourself and acknowledge yourself 
my prisoner.” 

“ To whom did you promise to perform that miracle ? ” 

“The king.” 

“Very good; return to the king and tell him that he 
intrusted you with an impossible mission.” 

“ Why, what do you hope for ? What do you expect, 
poor fool ? ” 

“ To die killing!” 

“Then kill!” said the grand justiciary, walking 
toward him. 

Don Fernand made a threatening gesture, then lowered 
his sword. 

“ Hark ye, ” he said, “ do not interfere in this matter : 
let it go on to its end between myself and the men who 
have undertaken it; you will gain nothing by interfering, 
I swear to you ! And yet, on my word as a gentleman, 
I should be in despair if any harm should befall you. ” 

Don Inigo took a step forward. 

“ Your sword ! ” said he. 

“ I told you that it was useless to demand it, and you 
have had an opportunity to see that it is dangerous to 
try to take it.” 

“ Your sword ! ” Don Inigo repeated, taking another 
step toward him. 

“ At least, draw yours ! ” cried the young man. 

“ God forbid that I should threaten you in any way, 
Don Fernand ; no, I choose to owe everything to persua- 
sion. Your sword, I beg you.” 

“ Hever!” 

“ I entreat you, Don Fernand.” 


250 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ What a strange influence you exert over me ! ” ex- 
claimed the young man. “ But, no, no, I will not give 
you my sword.” 

Don Inigo put out his hand. 

“ Your sword! ” 

There was a moment’s silence, during which Don Inigo 
put forth, to persuade Don Fernand, the strange power 
of fascination he had exerted over him from the day he 
first saw him. 

“ To think, ” he muttered, “ that my own father could 
not make me return my sword to its scabbard; to think 
that twenty men have been unable to wrest it from my 
hands; to think that I feel as strong as a wounded hull, 
strong enough to cut a whole regiment in pieces, and that 
you, disarmed as you are, have but to say a word! ” 

“ Give it to me ! ” said Don Inigo. 

“ Oh, but be sure of this, that it is to you alone that I 
surrender it; that you alone inspire fear and respect in 
my heart; and that it is at your feet, not at the king’s, that 
I lay this sword, red with blood from the hilt to the 
point.” 

And he humbly laid his sword at Don Inigo’s feet. 

The grand justiciary picked it up. 

“ It is well, ” he said ; “ and Heaven is my witness that 
at this moment, Don Fernand, I, the judge, would most 
gladly change places with you, the accused, and that I 
should suffer less from the danger you incur than from 
the pain that rends my heart ! ” 

“ What do you propose to do with me ? ” demanded 
Don Fernand, frowning. 

“ You must give me your word not to attempt to es- 
cape, to go at once to prison, and there await the king’s 
pleasure.” 

“ You have my word.” 


THE BOAR KEEPS THE DOGS AT BAY. 251 

“ Follow me.” 

Don Inigo walked to the stairs. 

“ Give place ! ” he said, “ and let no voice he raised to 
insult the prisoner; henceforth he is under the protection 
of my honor.” 

Every one drew aside. The grand justiciary, followed 
by Don Fernand, descended the blood-drenched stairs. 

When they reached the door, the young man cast a dis- 
dainful glance about; whereupon, despite Don Inigo’s 
command, shouts arose on all sides and fierce threats 
were heard. Don Fernand turned pale as death and 
rushed to pick up a sword that had fallen from a dead 
man’s hand. 

But Don Inigo had only to raise his hand. 

“ I have your word, ” he said. 

“ And you can rely upon it, ” said the prisoner, bowing. 

lie went down into the city to surrender himself at 
the prison, while the other crossed the square of Las 
Algives to join Don Carlos in the palace of the Alhamhra. 

The king was waiting, sombre and silent, walking back 
and forth in the hall of the Two Sisters, when the grand 
justiciary was announced. 

He paused in his walk, raised his head, and fixed his 
eyes on the door. 

Don Inigo appeared. 

“ Will Your Majesty permit me to kiss your hand? ” 
he said. 

“ As you venture to appear in my presence, it must be 
that the culprit is arrested, ” said Don Carlos. 

“Yes, sire.” 

“ Wliere is he ? ” 

“ He should be in prison at this moment.” 

“ You sent him thither under a strong escort ? ” 

“ Under the safest escort I could find, — ^ his honor, sire.” 


252 


THE BEIGAND. 


“ You trusted to his word? ” 

“ Your Highness forgets that a gentleman’s word is the 
strongest chain hy which he can he hound.” 

“ It is well, ” said Don Carlos ; “ this evening you will 
attend me to the prison. I have heard the father’s com- 
plaint; it remains for me to hear the son’s defence” 

Don Inigo howed. 

“ And yet,” murmured the king, “ what can a son who 
has struck his father say in his own defence ? ” 


THE EVE OF THE DENOUEMENT. 


253 


XXIX. 

THE EVE OF THE DENOUEMENT. 

The day, already pregnant with the events it had under- 
taken to bring forth for the morrow, was destined to 
promise even more entertainment for the public curiosity 
before the sun, which had risen from behind the glisten- 
ing peaks of the Sierra Nevada, should sink behind the 
frowning summits of the Sierra Morena. 

As we have said, while Don Inigo betook himself to 
the palace, Don Fernand, a prisoner on parole, betook 
himself to the prison, carrying his head proudly erect, 
not as one vanquished, but as a victor; for, in his own 
eyes, he had not succumbed: he had obeyed a sentiment 
which, while it ordered him to sacrifice his wrath and 
probably to yield up his life, was still not without a 
certain charm for him. 

He went down, therefore, toward the city, followed 
by a part of those who had been present at the terrible 
battle he had fought; but as Don Inigo had given orders 
that no one should insult the prisoner, and as the admi- 
ration that courage always arouses in a courageous people 
spoke even louder than the grand justiciary’s command 
to the noble Spanish heart, they who followed him — 
talking of the terrific blows they had seen him give and 
receive — seemed rather an honorable cortege than a 
degrading escort. 

At the foot of the slope leading to the Alhambra, Don 
Fernand met two veiled women; both stopped suddenly 
with a double exclamation of surprise and joy. He too 


254 


THE BRIGAND. 


stopped, partly because of the exclamation, partly because 
of the magnetic sentiment that stirs within us, not only 
when we meet a person who is dear to us, but when we 
are destined to see her in the near future. 

But, even before he had asked himself who the women 
were toward whom his heart instinctively flew out, one 
of them put her hand to her lips, and the other, with 
outstretched arms, faltered his name. 

“Ginesta! Dona Flor! ” he murmured; while, with 
the respect the multitude always exhibits for great sor- 
row, they who had followed the young man from the 
square of Las Algives, and who proposed to follow him 
to the prison, halted at some little distance, in order to 
allow the prisoner and the two young women to speak 
freely together. 

The interview was a brief one ; a few words only were 
exchanged between Don Fernand and Ginesta, a glance 
or two between Don Fernand and Dona Flor. 

Then the two girls went on toward the Alhambra, and 
Don Fernand toward the prison. 

The reader will understand the object of Ginesta’s 
visit to the palace : warned by Dona Flor of Don Fer- 
nand’s danger, she had come to make a second trial of 
her power over Don Carlos. 

But this time she had not the parchment that proved 
her birth nor the million she had paid for her dowry. 

Assuming the memory of the King of Spain to be as 
unreliable as a king’s memory ordinarily is, she was 
henceforth to her brother, as to all the world, simply 
the poor little gypsy, Ginesta. 

But she still had her heart, — her heart, wherein she 
hoped to And sufficient prayers and tears to move the 
heart of Don Carlos, however cold and inaccessible it 
might be. 


THE EVE OF THE DENOUEMENT. 255 

She feared only one thing: that she might be unable 
to reach the king. 

Great was her joy, therefore, when the door was 
opened to her as soon as she pronounced her name. 

The trembling Dona Flor, whose only hope was in 
her, waited at the door. 

Ginesta followed her guide. He softly opened the 
door of the room, which had been transformed into a 
sort of study, stood aside to let the girl pass, and closed 
the door without announcing her. 

Don Carlos was striding back and forth, his head 
hanging forward on his breast, his eyes fixed on the 
floor. You would have said that the weight of half the 
world was already pressing upon that Atlas of nineteen. 

Ginesta knelt upon one knee, and remained in that 
posture for some mom.ents before the king seemed even 
to perceive that she was there. At last he raised his 
eyes, gazed at her with a distraught expression, that 
gradually became questioning, and asked, — 

“Who are you?” 

“ Do you not recognize me, sire? ” replied the gypsy. 

In that case, I am indeed unfortunate.” 

Thereupon Don Carlos seemed to make an effort of 
memory; his glance, at certain times, seemed to experi- 
ence less difficulty in reading the future than fatigue 
in reading the past. 

“ Ginesta ! ” he said. 

“Yes, yes, Ginesta,” murmured the girl, overjoyed 
to be recognized. 

“ Do you know that the messenger from Frankfort 
will arrive to-day or to-morrow, if nothing happens to 
delay him? ” queried the king, halting in front of the 

gypsy. 

“ What messenger ? ” said Ginesta. 


256 


THE BEIGAND. 


“ The messenger who will inform me whether the 
empire belongs to Francis I. or to me at this moment.” 

“ God grant that it is yours, sire! ” said Ginesta. 

“Oh, if I am chosen emperor,” cried Don Carlos, 
“ how quickly I will begin by resuming possession of 
Naples, which I have promised to the pope; Italy, 
which I have yielded to France; Sardinia, which I 
have — ” 

He realized that he was repeating aloud the thoughts 
with which his mind was filled, and that he was not 
alone. 

He passed his hand across his brow. 

Ginesta took advantage of the pause. 

“ If you are emperor, will you pardon him, sire ? ” 
she said. 

“ Pardon whom 1 ” 

“ Fernand, the man I love, the man for whom I will 
pray to my dying day.” 

“The son who struck his father?” said Don Carlos, 
in a hoarse voice, as if the words stuck in his throat. 

Ginesta bowed her head. 

What could she do in face of such an accusation, 
above all, in face of such an accuser, poor child, except 
bow her head and weep ? 

She bowed her head and wept. 

Don Carlos looked at her for a few moments, and per- 
haps it was unfortunate for her that she dared not raise 
her eyes to his ; for she would certainly have surprised 
a gleam of compassion in his glance, fleeting though it 
may have been. 

“To-morrow,” he said, “you and all Granada will 
know my decision in that matter. Meanwhile remain 
at the palace; it is useless for you to return to your 
convent, whether the culprit lives or dies. ” 


THE EVE OF THE DENOUEMENT. 


257 


Ginesta felt that any entreaty on her part would be 
thrown away, and she rose to her feet, murmuring, — 

“ Do not forget, 0 king, that, although I am a stranger 
to you in the sight of men, I am your sister in God’s 
sight! ” 

Don Carlos waved his hand. 

Ginesta left the room. 

Dona Flor was still waiting at the door. 

Ginesta narrated what had taken place between the 
king and herself. 

At that moment an usher passed out, summoning the 
grand justiciary to attend upon the king. 

The two girls followed the usher, hoping to learn 
something from Don Inigo. 

Meanwhile Mercedes, praying on her knees in her 
bedroom, was waiting with no less anxiety than Ginesta 
and Dona Flor. 

She had returned to her former apartments; was it 
not there that Don Fernand, in the days when he was 
an outlaw, but still free, used to visit her? 

Happy days! 

Poor mother! who had reached the point where 
she called those days of shuddering fear and anguish 
happy ! 

Ah ! then she still had some doubt. 

Now all doubt was removed, hope was almost extinct. 

Beatrice and Vicente had been sent out by her for 
news. The news they brought became more alarming 
from moment to moment. 

At first she had hoped that Fernand would escape to 
the mountains. 

“Once in the mountains,” she said to herself, “he 
will in good time go down to some seaport, and embark 
for Africa or Italy.” 


17 


258 


THE BEIGAND. 


She would never see her son again, but he would be 
alive ! 

About one o’clock she learned that he had refused to 
fly farther before the shouting mob that pursued him, 
and had halted in the square of Las Algives. 

At two o’clock she learned that he was fighting in the 
Vela Tower, and had already killed or wounded eight 
or ten men. 

At three o’clock she learned that he had surrendered 
to Don Inigo, and had given himself up at the prison, 
without guards, in accordance with his word. 

At four o’clock she learned that the king had promised 
the grand justiciary not to pronounce his judgment until 
he had questioned the accused. 

At five o’clock she learned that the king had informed 
Ginesta that, on the morrow, she and all Granada would 
know what his judgment was. 

On the morrow, therefore, the judgment would be 
pronounced. 

What would that judgment be ? 

During the evening a vague but terrible rumor reached 
her ears. 

They said in the city — in sooth, they were fain to 
content themselves with saying it, as there was no proof 
that it was really so — that the king had sent for the 
grand justiciary and had ordered him to have a scaffold 
erected on the square of Las Algives after nightfall. 

For whom was that scaffold ? 

The king had visited the prisons with Don Inigo, 
and he had done nothing but grant pardons. 

For whom was the scaffold , if not for Don Fernand ? 

But was it true that the order had been given 1 

Vicente undertook to obtain a positive answer to that 
question: he would watch all night, and nothing should 


THE EVE OF THE Dl^NOUEMENT. 


259 


take place on the square of Las Algives without his 
knowing it and reporting it to his mistress. 

About nine o’clock in the evening he left the house ; 
but an hour later ‘he returned, saying that he had found 
it impossible to reach the square of Las Algives, as all 
the entrances were closed and guarded by sentinels. 

There was nothing to do but to wait and pray. 

Dona Mercedes resolved to pass the night in prayer. 

She knelt, and heard the watchmen cry the hours one 
after another. 

The dismal voice crying the hour of midnight and 
bidding the people of Granada sleep in peace had hardly 
died away in the distance, when it seemed to Dona 
Mercedes that she heard a key turning in the lock of 
the door through which Don Fernand was accustomed to 
enter. 

She turned on her knees in the direction of that door, 
and saw it open and admit a man whose face was covered 
with a broad felt hat and his figure wrapped in a great 
cloak. 

Her son alone had a key to that door. 

“ Fernand ! Fernand ! ” she cried, rushing to meet the 
nocturnal visitor. 

But she stopped abruptly when she noticed that the 
man who had entered the room and locked the door 
behind him was a head shorter than Fernand. 

At the same time the stranger raised his hat and let 
fall his cloak. 

“ I am not Fernand, ” he said. 

Mercedes recoiled a step. 

“ The king! ” she faltered. 

The stranger shook his head. 

" Madame, I am not the king — not here, at least,” 
he said. 


260 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ What are you , then, sire ? ” Mercedes asked. , 

“ A confessor. To your knees, woman ! and confess 
that you have been false to your husband. It is impos- 
sible that a son should strike his father. ” 

Mercedes fell on her knees and exclaimed, holding 
out her trembling hands to the king, — 

“ 0 sire, sire! God has sent you! Listen, and I will 
tell you everything.” 


THE CONFESSION. 


261 


XXX. 

THE CONFESSION. 

At that exordium the king began to breathe more freely. 

“ I am listening,” he said in a curt, imperious tone. 

“ Sire,” murmured Mercedes, “ I am about to tell you 
things of the sort that a woman finds it difficult to tell, 
although I am very far from being as guilty as I may 
seem at first glance to be; but, in speech at least, be 
indulgent to me, I entreat you, or I feel that I cannot 
go on.” 

“Speak with confidence, Dona Mercedes,” replied 
Don Carlos, in a slightly softened tone, “ and never was 
secret kept more religiously by the priest into whose 
ear it was whispered than the secret will be which you 
are about to confide to your king.” 

“ I thank you humbly, sire! ” said Mercedes. 

And, after passing her hand across her forehead, not 
to collect or concentrate her memories, — it was easy to 
see that they were all at hand, — but to wipe away the 
sweat of anguish by which it was still bedewed, she 
began, — 

“ Sire, I had been brought up with the son of a friend 
of my father, as a brother and sister are brought up 
together, without suspecting for an instant that there 
was any other sentiment in the world than fraternal 
affection, when suddenly a dispute concerning money 
matters embroiled those two friends who were supposed 
to be inseparable. 


262 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ Nor was that all : the rupture was widened by an 
actual demand for money. Who was in the wrong? 
Who was in the right? I have no idea; but what I do 
know is that my father paid the sum demanded , and left 
Seville, where we lived, for Cordova, in order not to 
be in the same city with the man who had been his 
friend, but had become his mortal enemy. 

“ The rupture between the fathers separated the 
children. 

“I was barely thirteen years old at that time; he 
whom I had always called my brother was seventeen; 
we had never said that we loved each other, perhaps we 
had never thought it, when that unexpected separation, 
decided upon and carried out with great suddenness, 
showed us clearly what was in our hearts. 

“ Something wept and bled profusely within us ; it 
was that friendship, which had become love and was 
suddenly shattered by the hands of our parents. 

“ Was that a thing that they had in mind? Did they 
know the evil they were doing? I believe that they 
did not even suspect it; but, even if they had suspected 
it, I think that their mutual hatred had become too 
intense for them to disturb themselves in the least con- 
cerning the influence it might have upon our love. 

“Thus our families were separated, both by hatred 
and by distance. But we swore to each other, in a last 
interview, that nothing should separate us. 

“And, in truth, what share had we poor children, 
who were born side by side and had grown up together, 
in the animosities of our parents ? And when they had 
said to us again and again, every day for ten years, 
‘ Love each other ! ’ were we not excusable for not 
obeying when they suddenly said to us, ‘ Hate each 
other! ’ 


THE CONFESSION. 263 

Mercedes seemed to await a word of encouragement 
from the king before continuing; but he replied, — 

“ I do not know what love is, madame, having never 
loved. ” 

"In that case,” said Mercedes, despondently, “I am 
very unfortunate, sire, for you will understand nothing 
of what I still have to tell you.” 

“ Excuse me, senora, for I am a judge, having been 
king from childhood, and I know what justice is.” 

Mercedes continued : — 

"We kept our word; our very separation favored our 
love, of which our parents knew nothing. My father’s 
house, at Cordova, was close beside the Guadalquivir; 
my room, which was at the extreme rear of the house, 
had a window with a grating looking on the river. My 
lover purchased a boat, and, leaving his home at Seville 
thrice each month, on the pretext of hunting in the 
Sierra, came beneath my window, disguised as a fisher- 
man, to tell me that he loved me still, and to hear from 
my mouth that I still loved him. 

“ Our hope at first was that the hatred between our 
families would be allayed; but it constantly increased. 

" Every form of entreaty was resorted to by my lover 
to induce me to fly with him. 

“ I resisted. 

" Thereupon he fell a prey to a sort of dull despair ; 
those nocturnal interviews, which made him perfectly 
happy at first, were no longer sufficient for him. 

" The war between the Christians and the Moors was 
fiercer than ever. 

" One night he informed me that he was weary of life, 
and was going to take part in the war and be killed. 

“ I wept, but I did not yield. He went away. 

" For a year I saw no more of him ; but during that 


264 


THE BRIGAND. 


year reports constantly came to my ears of such glorious 
exploits performed by him that, if I could have loved 
him more, my love would have been augmented by his 
gallantry and his renown. 

“These reports were brought to us, most of the time, 
by a young man who Avas present with him in the battles 
he described, and had shared his dangers. That young 
man, his companion-in-arms, was the son of one of 
my father’s friends, and his name was Don Euiz de 
Torrillas.” 

The king listened, with a sombre look in his eyes, 
silent and impassive as a statue. Dona Mercedes ven- 
tured to look up at him to try to judge from his ex- 
pression whether she had best abridge or prolong her 
narrative. 

Don Carlos understood the mute question. 

“ Go on,” he said. 

“ The close attention with which I listened to Avhat 
Don Ruiz told me, the eagerness with which I ran to 
him when his presence Avas announced, made him 
think, I doubt not, that my sympathy Avas for himself, 
Avhile in reality it related entirely to him who Avas 
absent; so his visits became more frequent, and, failing 
his voice, his eyes began to tell me the secrets of his 
heart. 

“Thenceforth, although it cost me dear to hear no 
more of the man Avho filled my Avhole mind, and Avho 
had carried aAvay all my joy Avith him, I ceased to go 
doAvnstairs Avhen Don Ruiz came. 

“ Indeed, he soon ceased to come; the army to Avhich 
he belonged Avas engaged in the siege of Granada. 

“ One day we learned that Granada Avas taken. 

“ It Avas a great joy to us, as Christians, to know that 
the Moorish capital was in the hands of the Catholic 


THE CONFESSION. 


265 


king; but, in my own case, a long-standing sorrow 
drowned all joy, and the news found my father over- 
whelmed by fresh misfortunes. 

“ What remained of our fortune came from my father’s 
first wife; that fortune belonged to a son, a sort of 
adventurer, who was supposed to be dead, and whom I 
hardly knew, although I was his sister. 

“ He appeared, and claimed his fortune. 

“ My father asked only the necessary time to settle 
his accounts; but he told me that, when the accounts 
were settled, we should be utterly ruined. 

“ I thought the moment a favorable one. I ventured 
to say a few words concerning the old friend with whom 
he had fallen out; but at the first word I uttered his 
eyes flashed fire. 

" I held my peace. 

“ His hatred revived with every fresh grief. 

“I had to make up my mind never to refer to the 
subject again. 

“ On the night following that day, being unable to 
sleep, I was sitting on the balcony that overlooked the 
stream; the grating of my window was open, for it 
seemed to me that I could not breathe freely through 
the iron bars. 

“ The melting snows had swollen the Guadalquivir, 
which flpwed almost beneath my feet. I was looking 
up at the sky, following the floating clouds which a 
fitful breeze caused to change their shape and aspect 
twenty times in a quarter of an hour, when I saw, amid 
the shadows that overhung the river, a boat rowed by a 
single fisherman. I drew back in order not to be seen, 
and intending to resume my place when he had passed; 
but suddenly a dark form appeared in front of me, shut- 
ting out the stars; a man climbed over the balcony 


266 


THE BRIGAND. 


rail; I gave a shriek of terror, but a well-known voice 
answered the shriek, — 

“ ‘ It is I, Mercedes. Silence! ’ 

“ It was he, in very truth. I should have fled; it did 
not occur to me to do so; I fell half fainting into his 
arms. When I came to myself — alas ! I no longer 
belonged to myself, sire ! 

“ The unhappy man had not come with the purpose of 
committing that crime; he had come to see me for the 
last time, and to bid me farewell; he was setting out 
with the Genoese, Columbus, on a voyage of discovery. 
In the distance he had seen me on the balcony; my 
retreat had left the way clear. He had never found the 
grating open before ; it was the first time he had entered 
my room. 

“ Thereupon he renewed his instances to induce me 
to follow him; if I would accompany him on the adven- 
turous journey he was about to undertake, he would 
obtain Columbus’s consent to my going disguised as a 
man; if I preferred any other part of the world, all 
places were alike to him, provided that he lived there 
with me. He was rich and independent; we loved each 
other ; we should be happy together anywhere. 

“ I refused. 

“ Before daybreak he left me. We said farewell 
forever, — at least we thought so ; he was to join Colum- 
bus at Palos, and they were to sail the following month. 

“ Ere long I discovered that our misfortunes did not 
stop halfway : I was about to become a mother ! 

“ I wrote the fatal news to him, hoping and yet fear- 
ing that he had already sailed, and waited, in solitude 
and tears, until God should decide my fate. 

“ One night, when I had been so long without a reply 
that I was certain that he was already sailing toward 


THE CONFESSION. 


267 


the unknown world which immortalized the name of 
Columbus, I heard beneath my window the signal that 
announced his presence. 

“ I believed that my ears had deceived me, and I 
waited, trembling with excitement. 

“ The signal was repeated. . 

" Oh, I confess that my joy was beyond words as I 
flew to the window and opened it. 

“ He was there, in a boat, holding out his arms; 
Columbus’s departure was postponed, and he had 
travelled across a large part of Spain to see me for the 
last time, or to take me with him. 

“ Alas ! our very misfortune gave him the hope that I 
would go with him. 

“ I resisted. I was the only remaining comfort, the 
only companion of my poor father, who was reduced to 
poverty. I was determined to confess everything to 
him, to run the risk of his wrath, but never to leave 
him. 

“Oh, that was a terrible night, sire! and one that, 
at all events, could not be repeated. 

“ Columbus’s departure was appointed for August 3. 
Only by a miracle of speed had he come, only by another 
miracle of speed could he return and arriye in time. 

“Oh, sire, sire, I cannot tell you all the entreaties, 
prayers, supplications, he resorted to during that night. 
Twenty times he went down into his boat, and climbed 
back to the balcony again; the last time he took me in 
his arms and tried to carry me by force. I cried; I 
called. We heard the noise made by some person rising 
and coming to my help; he must fly or he discovered. 

“ He rushed off to his boat for the last time; and I, 
when I felt his heart leave mine, fell fainting on the 
floor 1 There Beatrice found me.” 


268 


THE BRIGAND. 


And poor Mercedes, almost as excited, almost as inan- 
imate as she had been on that fatal night, wringing her 
hands and sobbing bitterly, fell back against a chair, 
although she was still on her knees. 

“ Take breath, madame,” said Don Carlos, gravely and 
coldly; “ I have the whole night to give you.” 

There was a brief silence, during which nothing but 
Dona Mercedes’ sobs could be heard. Don Carlos mean- 
while was so entirely motionless that he might have 
been taken for a statue; so entirely self-controlled that 
not even his respiration was audible. 

“ He went away,” faltered Mercedes. 

And with those words her soul seemed to take 
flight. 

“ Three days later my father’s friend, Don Francisco 
de Torrillas, called upon him. He asked for a private 
interview, having, as he said, an affair of the utmost 
importance to discuss with him. 

“ The two old men were closeted together. 

“ Don Francisco came to ask my father for my hand 
in his own name and his son’s. His son loved me 
dearly, and had told him that he could not live without 
me. 

“Nothing could have made my father happier than 
that proposition. A single scruple withheld him from 
accepting it at once. 

“ ‘ Do you know the state of my fortune ? ’ he asked 
his friend. 

“ ‘ No, but it is of little consequence.’ 

I am ruined,’ said my father. 

What then? ’ 

“‘Utterly ruined.’ 

" ‘ So much the better ! ’ his friend replied. 

“‘How so?’ 


THE CONFESSION. 


269 


** * I am rich enough for both of us, and whatever 
price you put upon the treasure you give us, I can 
pay it. ’ 

“ My father gave Don Francisco his hand. 

I authorize Don Kuiz to call upon my daughter,’ 
he said; ‘ let him obtain Mercedes’ consent, and Mercedes 
is his.’ 

“ I had passed three terrible days. My father, who 
did not suspect the cause of my illness, had come each 
day to inquire for me. 

“ Ten minutes after Don Francisco’s departure he was 
in my room, and told me all that had taken place. A 
quarter of an hour before I would not have believed 
that my unhappiness could increase : I found that I was 
mistaken^ 

“ My father left me, after informing me that Don 
Ruiz would call the following day. 

“ I had not had the strength to answer him, and, when 
he had gone, I was completely crushed. Gradually, 
however, I emerged from my stupor and faced my situa- 
tion, which appeared to me, not as the spectre of the 
past, but as the spectre of the future. By far the most 
terrible thing was the being compelled to lock up the 
fatal secret in my own breast. Oh, if I could have 
confided it to some one it seems to me that I should 
have suffered less ! 

“ The night came. Notwithstanding Beatrice’s en- 
treaties to be allowed to remain with me, I sent her 
away. In solitude I could at least weep. 0 sire, the 
tears flowed freely, — the tears that would long ago have 
been exhausted, had not the Lord in his mercy decreed 
that the source of tears should be inexhaustible. 

“ As soon as night had descended upon the earth, as 
soon as silence reigned all about, I took my place on 


270 


THE BRIGAND. 


that balcony where I had been at once so happy and so 
wretched. 

“ It seemed to me that he would come. 

“ Oh, never had I longed for him so earnestly from 
the very bottom of my heart ! 

“If he had come, forgive me, father, but that time I 
could not have held out against him ; wherever he had 
chosen to take me, I would have gone with him ; wher- 
ever he had chosen to lead me, I would have followed. 

“ A boat appeared; a man was rowing up the Guadal- 
quivir, singing. 

“ It was not his voice ; he would have been silent. 
No matter, I hugged my delusion , and, with outstretched 
arms, I cried to the phantom I had created for myself, — 

“ ‘ Come ! come ! come ! ’ 

“ The boat passed. Probably the fisherman could not 
understand the voice that he heard in the darkness, or 
the woman who leaned toward him in the shadow. 

“ And yet he understood that there was sorrow of 
some sort afloat in the night; for before he reached my 
window he ceased his singing, and did not begin- again 
until he had passed. 

“The boat disappeared; I was left alone. All about 
me stretched the animate silence amid which you seem 
to hear the breathing of nature. 

“ The star-studded sky was reflected in the water; one 
would have said that I was suspended in mid-air; the 
void attracted me and gave me a sort of vertigo. I was 
£0 unhappy that I thought of dying. From the thought 
to its execution was only a step, — it was so easy; death 
opened his arms to me only three feet below. 

“ I felt my head bending forward, my body leaning 
over the balcony, my feet leaving the floor of their own 
accord. 


THE CONFESSION. 


271 


" Suddenly I thought of my child. 

“ In killing myself I should he guilty not of suicide 
simply, hut of murder. 

“ I grasped the balcony ; I stepped hack ; I closed the 
grating; I threw the key into the river, so that I could 
not give way to the temptation of despair; and I walked 
backward to my bed and fell upon it. 

“ Slowly and painfully the hours passed. I saw the 
approach of dawn; I heard all the noises of the day 
begin one after another. Beatrice opened my door and 
entered the room. 

“ The daily life began once more. 

“ At eleven o’clock Beatrice announced Don Ruiz. 
He came with a message from my father. 

“ My mind was made up; I bade her admit him. 

“He was at once shy and radiant. 

“ My father had told him that he had no doubt that 
his suit would be favorably received. 

“ But when he glanced at me, and saw how pale and 
cold I was, he too began to tremble and turn pale. 

“ I looked up at him and waited. 

“His voice failed him; he tried ten times to tell me 
what his errand was. 

“ As he spoke, he felt that his words were shattered 
against the wall of adamant that encased my heart. 

“ At last he succeeded in telling me that he had loved 
me for a long time ; that our marriage was agreed upon 
by his father and mine, and that only my consent was 
lacking to make him the happiest man on earth. 

“ * Sehor,’ I replied in a firm voice, — for my reply 
had long been prepared, — ‘ the honor you offer me can- 
not be accepted by me. ’ 

“ His face had been pale ; it became livid. 

“ ‘ Why so, in God’s name ? ’ he asked. 


272 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ ‘ I love another man, and in seven months I shall 
be a mother! ^ 

He staggered, and almost fell. 

“ There was something so desperate in that confes- 
sion — made to a man whom I had seen only five or six 
times, and whom I did not even hind to secrecy, as if, 
trusting in his honor, I considered that a useless for- 
mality — that it was impossible for him to persist in his 
suit. 

“ He bowed low before me , lifted the hem of my dress 
and kissed it, and left the room, saying only these three 
words, — ' 

“ ‘ God bless you! 

“ I was alone once more. 

“ Every moment I expected to see my father appear, 
and I trembled at the thought of being compelled to 
give him an explanation; but, to my great astonish- 
ment, I heard nothing from him. 

“ At the dinner hour I sent word to him that I was a 
little indisposed, and asked his permission to dine in 
my room. 

“ The permission was granted without remonstrance 
or comment. 

“ Three days passed. 

“ On the third day Beatrice once more announced 
Don Ruiz. 

As before, I ordered her to admit him. His manner 
of taking leave of me at our last interview had touched 
me deeply ; there was something sublime in the respect 
he had shown a poor abandoned girl. 

“ He entered, and remained near the door. 

“ * Approach, Senor Don Ruiz,’ I said. 

“ ‘ My presence surprises and annoys you, does it 
not?’ he asked me. 


THE CONFESSION. 273 

“ ‘ It surprises me,’ I answered, ‘ but does not annoy 
me, for I feel that I have a friend in you.’ 

“ ‘You are not mistaken,’ he said; ‘ and yet I would 
have spared you the sight of me if it were not necessary 
to your tranquillity. ’ 

‘ ‘ Explain your meaning, Senor Don Ruiz. ’ 

“ ‘ I could not tell your father that you had refused 
me for your husband, for he would have come and 
demanded an explanation, and you would not have given 
him the explanation you gave me, would you 1 ’ 

“ ‘ I would rather die ! ’ 

“ ‘ You see that it was necessary to do as I did. ’ 
“‘What did you do?’ 

“ ‘ I said that you had asked for a few days to make 
up your mind, and that you wished to be allowed to 
pass those few days in solitude.’ 

“ ‘ It is to you, then, that I owe my tranquillity ? ’ 

“ He bowed. 

“ ‘ And now,’ he said, ‘ it is important that you should 
believe me to be your sincere friend. ’ 

“ I offered him my hand. 

“‘Ah, yes, my friend, my very sincere friend, I do 
believe it! ’ I said. 

“ ‘ Then, answer me with no more hesitation than 
before. ’ 

“ ‘ Question me. ’ 

“ ‘ Have you any hope of ever being able to marry the 
man you love 1 ’ 

“ ‘ Impossible ! ’ 

“ ‘ Is he dead ? ’ 

“ ‘ He is alive. ’ 

“ A ray of joy that had gleamed in his eyes vanished. 

“ ‘ Ah! ’ he said, ‘ that is all I wanted to know.’ 

“ Bowing once more to me, he left the room with a sigh. 

18 


274 


THE BKIGAND. 


“ Three more days passed. 

“ During those three days I did not leave my room, 
and, with the exception of Beatrice, no one entered it, 
not even my father. 

“ On the fourth day Don Buiz was announced once 
more. 

“ I almost expected him ; I had ceased to dread the 
sight of him; he was my only confidant, and I was sure 
that he had told the truth when he told me that he was 
sincerely my friend. 

“He entered respectfully, as usual, and did not 
approach me until I motioned to him to do so. 

“I gave him my hand; he took it and touched it 
gently with his lips. 

“ Then, after a moment’s silence, during which his 
eyes were fixed upon me with deep interest, he said, — 

“ ‘ I have not ceased for one instant to think of your 
position; it is terrible! ’ 

“ I uttered a sigh. 

“‘We cannot, however much I may desire to assist 
you, postpone your reply forever.’ 

“ ‘ Alas! ’ I exclaimed. 

“ ‘ Of course I could say that I have withdrawn my 
suit; I would willingly incur the shame of allowing it 
to be thought that your father’s ruin had cooled my 
affection for you; but how would that assist you? It 
would simply give you a reprieve for two or three 
months. ’ 

“ I burst into tears, for all that he said was exactly 
true. 

“‘Some day or other,’ he continued, ‘ your father 
must learn your condition; everybody must know it; 
and then ’ — he lowered his voice — ‘ then you will be 
dishonored! ’ 


THE CONFESSION. 


275 


“ ‘ But what can I do ? ’ I cried. 

“ ‘ Marry a man who is devoted enough to you to he 
your husband in the eyes of the world, and no more 
than a brother in his relations with you.’ 

“ I shook my head. 

“ ‘ Where can I find such a man ? ’ I said. 

I have come to make you that offer, Mercedes; 
have I not said that I love you? ’ 

“ ‘ You love me — but — ’ 

“ ‘ W^hen I love, Mercedes, it is with all the great 
passions, not of the heart only, hut of the soul, and 
among those passions is devotion.’ 

" I raised my head, and recoiled from him almost in 
dismay. 

" I had not guessed that devotion could go so far. 

I will he your brother,’ he repeated; ‘ but your 
child shall he my child, and never a word, I pledge you 
my honor as a gentleman, — never a word on that point 
shall be exchanged between us.’ 

“ I looked at him, full of doubt and hesitation. 

“ * Tell me,’ he said, ‘ will that not he better than to 
throw yourself out of yonder window into the river that 
flows by the foot of your house ? ’ 

“For a moment I stood speechless; then, falling at 
his knees, I exclaimed, — 

“ ‘ Brother, have pity on your wife, and save my 
father’s honor! ’ 

“ He raised me, kissed my hand, and left the room. 

“ A fortnight later I was Don Kuiz’ wife. 

“ Don Buiz kept his word like a loyal gentleman ; 
but nature refused to lend a hand to the deceit, and, 
although Don Kuiz has always bestowed a father’s care 
upon Don Fernand, Don Fernand has never had a filial 
feeling for him. 


276 


THE BRIGAND. 


“ Now, sire, you know all ! ” 

“Except the name of the real father,” said the king; 
“ but you are going to tell me that. ” 

“Don Inigo Velasco!” faltered Mercedes, casting 
down her eyes. 

“ It is well,” said the king; “ I know all that I wanted 
to know.” 

Thereupon he left the room, grave and stern, leaving 
the woman on her knees, and muttering as he went, — 

“ I knew that it was impossible for a son to strike his 
father! ” 


CONCLUSION. 


277 


CONCLUSION. 

The next morning at daybreak a great multitude filled 
the square of Las Algives, crowding about a scaffold 
erected in the centre of the square. 

The executioner stood, with folded arms, at the foot 
of the scaffold. An air of mystery prevailed through- 
out the city, and it was said that King Don Carlos was 
about to administer justice for the first time. 

Many Moors could be recognized amid the throng, by 
their fiery eyes, even more readily than by their oriental 
costume. Those eyes were gleaming with joy at the 
prospect of seeing punishment meted out to a man of 
noble birth, a rico hombre and a Christian. 

As the clock on the Vela Tower struck nine the gates 
of the Alhambra were thrown open ; the guards formed 
in two lines, drove back the crowd, and compelled the 
people to form a great circle at some distance from the 
scaffold. 

Then King Don Carlos appeared, casting a troubled 
glance on every side from beneath his restless eyelids. 
You would have said that he was looking about, as if 
from habit, for a long-expected messenger. 

As the messenger did not arrive, the royal counte- 
nance resumed its customary immobility. 

Beside the king walked a young woman whose face 
could not be seen because of the veil which covered it; 
but from her costume, which was at once rich and 
chaste, it was evident that she belonged to the noble 
caste. 


278 


THE BRIGAND. 


Don Carlos passed through the crowd, and did not 
pause until he was within a few steps of the scatfold. 

Behind him appeared the grand justiciary and Dona 
Flor. Dona Flor was leaning on her father’s arm. 

When their eyes fell upon the scaffold they both 
stopped, and it would have been impossible to say 
which was the paler of the two. 

The king turned to see if the grand justiciary were 
following him; and when he saw that he had stopped, 
supporting his fainting daughter, and near fainting 
himself, he sent an officer to bid him come and join 
him. 

At the same time two persons made their way through 
the crowd from the opposite direction. They were Don 
Kuiz and Dona Mercedes. 

Both turned their eyes upon the scaffold, but with 
very different expressions. 

Five minutes had not passed when Don Fernand and 
Don Bamiro, the two rivals, appeared, escorted by men- 
at-arms. Don Fernand had been arrested the day be- 
fore , as we have described ; Don Eamiro had surrendered 
himself voluntarily, in accordance with the order he had 
received. 

All the actors in the drama, the first four acts of 
which had been played, were assembled for the last 
act. Silence fell upon the throng, and all awaited the 
unknown catastrophe, to which the executioner’s presence 
lent a mysterious but awful significance. 

Don Carlos raised his head, glanced for the last time 
toward the Moorish gate, and, seeing that nobody came, 
he fixed his eyes upon Don Inigo, who felt a shudder 
run over his whole body under that icy glance. 

“ Don Inigo Velasco de Haro,” he said, in such a 
vibrating voice that, although it did not rise above the 


CONCLUSION. 


279 


ordinary pitch, it was clearly heard by all, “on two 
occasions, without offering any reasons in support of 
your request, you have solicited the life of a man who 
has twice merited death. You are no longer grand 
justiciary of Andalusia.” 

A murmur arose among the actors in this scene, and 
was taken up by the crowd ; Don Inigo stepped forward, 
doubtless to justify himself. 

“You are no longer grand justiciary of Andalusia,” 
continued King Don Carlos, “ but you are constable of 
the kingdom; the man who holds the scales of justice 
unsteadily may gallantly wield the sword of war.” 

“ Sire! ” murmured Don Inigo. 

“Silence, constable,” interposed Don Carlos; “I 
have not done. — Don E-uiz,” he continued, “ for a long 
time I have known you to be one of the noblest gentle- 
men in my Spanish dominions ; since yesterday I have 
known you to be one of the noblest hearts in the whole 
world.” 

Don Euiz bowed. 

“You are appointed grand justiciary of Andalusia in 
Don Inigo’s place; you came to me yesterday to demand 
justice for the insult that had been put upon you : mete 
out justice yourself.” 

Don Ruiz trembled. 

Dona Mercedes became pale as death. 

“Don Fernand,” the king continued, “you are twice 
guilty: once you rebelled against the laws of society, 
and that time I pardoned you; another time you 
rebelled against the laws of nature, and, deeming myself 
powerless to punish so great a crime, I leave it for the 
person outraged to pardon or punish at his will. But, 
in any event, from this moment your name is stricken 
from the roll of noblemen; I take away your title of 


280 


THE BRIGAND. 


Tico homhref and I make you, not as pure, unfortu- 
nately, but as poor, as solitary, as naked as on the day 
you came into the world! — Ginesta,” continued the 
king, “ you are no longer the gypsy of the Moorish King 
Inn or the novice of the convent of the Annonciade: 
you are Duchess of Carmona, Marchioness of Montefrio, 
Countess of Pulgar ; you are made a grandee of the first 
class, and that grandeeship you can confer, with your 
name, on your husband, though you should take him 
from the ranks of the people, from a Moorish tribe, or 
at the gallows’ foot.” 

He turned to Don Kamiro. 

“Don Kamiro,” he said, “ you are free; you were 
insulted and could not have done otherwise than answer 
the insult; but, while fighting, you honored old age, 
which is of all things the most worthy of respect after 
the Lord God. I cannot make you richer than you are, 
but, in memory of me, you will add the name of Carlos 
to the names you bear, and place the Lion of Burgundy 
in Chief in your crest. — And now let punishment or 
reward be meted out to all! Begin, Don Kuiz, grand 
justiciary of the realm.” 

Profound silence ensued. All eyes were turned upon 
Don Kuiz, all ears were opened, and this is what they 
saw and heard : — 

Dona Mercedes, who up to that time had been mo- 
tionless as a statue, seemed to lift her feet from 
the ground with difficulty, and, walking slowly and 
solemnly across the space between herself and her hus- 
band, who was standing with folded arms, she said to 
him, — 

“ My lord, in the name of everything most sacred in 
heaven and earth, the mother implores pardon for her 
son! ” 


CONCLUSION. 281 

For a moment there was a silent conflict in Don Kuiz’ 
heart and upon his features. 

Then he placed one of his hands on Dona Mercedes’ 
head, and with an expression and accent of infinite 
sweetness , he said , — 

“ I pardon ! ” 

A loud murmur ran through the crowd. Don Fernand 
turned frightfully pale. He looked down at his side 
for a weapon; and, if he could have found his Basque 
dagger, perhaps he would have stabbed himself rather 
than accept that pardon from the old man. 

But Don Fernand was disarmed, and in the hands of 
his guards. 

“ It is your turn. Duchess of Carmona ! ” said Don 
Carlos. 

Ginesta came forward and knelt at Don Fernand’s 
feet, raising her veil as she did so. 

“ Don Fernand, I love you ! ” she said. 

The young man uttered a cry, stood for a moment like 
one bewildered, cast a long glance at Dona Flor, and 
held out his arms to Ginesta, who clung to him, joyous 
with a joy that she had never known before. 

“ Duchess of Carmona, Marchioness of Montefrio, and 
Countess of Pulgar, do you take for your husband the 
condemned felon Fernand, who has neither name, nor 
rank, nor fortune?” asked Don Carlos. 

“I love him, sire! I love him! ” Ginesta repeated. 

And, compelling Don Fernand to kneel, she fell on 
her knees with him before the king. 

“ It is well,” said Don Carlos; “ a king has only his 
word. Bise, Duke of Carmona, Marquis of Montefrio, 
Count of Pulgar, grandee of Spain of the first class in 
right of your wife, — the sister of a king and daughter 
of a king ! ” 


282 


THE BEIGAND. 


Then, giving the actors and spectators no time to 
recover from their astonishment, he turned to Don 
Eamiro. 

“ It is your turn, Don Eamiro, ” he said. 

Don Eamiro walked unsteadily from where he stood 
to Dona Elor. There was a sort of gold and purple 
cloud before his eyes, while the voices of all the angels 
in heaven seemed to he singing in his ears. 

He knelt upon one knee before her. 

“ For two years I have loved you, senora,” he said. 
“ Don Eamiro d’ Avila dared not tell you so; hut in the 
presence of the king, his godfather, Don Carlos d’ Avila 
humbly asks for your hand. ” 

“ Senor,” faltered Dona Flor, “ ask my father.” 

“ I am your father for to-day. Dona Flor,” said Don 
Carlos, “ and I give your hand to your love courier.” 

The three groups were still in the positions we have 
indicated, when suddenly a great clamor was heard in 
the direction of the gate of the Judgment; a moment 
later, a horseman, covered with dust, whom Don Carlos 
recognized by his costume as a German nobleman, 
appeared upon the scene, waving a parchment in the 
air, and shouting, — 

“ The king ? Where is the king ? ” 

Don Carlos in his turn became pale as death; you 
would have said that he who had just pronounced judg- 
ment was about to he judged himself. 

“The king? Where is the king?” the horseman 
repeated. 

The crowd made way for him. 

Don Carlos stepped forward and said, in a firm voice, 
although his almost livid face betrayed the anguish of 
his heart, — 

“ He is here ! ” 


CONCLUSION. 


283 


The horse stopped short, trembling in every limb, 
and throwing himself back upon his haunches. 

Everybody waited in breathless suspense. 

The horseman stood up in his stirrups. 

“ Give ear all who are here present ! ” he cried ; “ listen , 
Granada! listen, Burgos! listen, Valladolid! listen, 
Spain! listen, Europe! listen, the whole world ! Hail 
to Charles V., Emperor elect ! honor to his reign ! glory 
to his sons and his sons’ sons! ” 

Leaping from his horse, and falling on his knees, he 
presented the document that declared the election of 
King Don Carlos to the imperial throne of Germany. 

Don Carlos took it with a trembling hand; hut it was 
impossible to detect the slightest trace of emotion in his 
voice, as he said, — 

“ Thanks, my Lord Duke of Bavaria; I shall not for- 
get that I am indebted to you for my first knowledge of 
this great news. ” 

And then, as all the spectators repeated with joyous 
shouts the words of the messenger, “ Glory to Charles V.! 
glory to his sons and his sons’ sons ! ” the emperor raised 
his hand. 

“Gentlemen,” said he, “to God alone he glory, for 
God alone is great ! ” 














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BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


LIST OF CHARACTERS. 

Period, 1793-1794. 


revolutionists. 


General Alexandre Dumas, the author’s father. 

General Marceau, a young republican leader. 

Maximilien Robespierre, 

Saint-Just, 

COLLOT d’HeRBOIS, 

Billaud-V arennes, 

Robert Lindet, 

COUTHON, 

Gambon, 

Carnot, 

Barrere, 

Danton, leader of the Mountain. 

Camille Desmoulins, 

Philippaux, 

Herault de Sechelles, 

Lacroix, 

Hebert, of the Commune. 

D ELMAR, representative of the people. 

Carrier, proconsul at Nantes. 

Blanche de Beaulieu, daughter of the Marquis de Beaulieu, 
Vendean. 

Tinguy, in the service of Marquis de Beaulieu. 

The Cure of Sainte-Marie de Rnh, a Vendean priest. 


adherents of Danton. 


I 














BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


I. 

Whoever, during the evening of December 15, 1793, 
had started from the little town of Clisson to go to the 
village of Saint-Crepin, and had halted on the crest of 
the mountain at whose foot flows the river La Moine, 
w'ould have seen a curious spectacle on the other side of 
the valley. 

In the first place, at the spot where his eyes would 
have sought the village among the trees, against an 
horizon already darkened by the twilight, he would 
have noticed three or four columns of smoke, which, 
isolated at their bases, joined as they spread out, swayed 
a moment like a bronzed dome, then, yielding gracefully 
to a damp, westerly breeze, floated to the eastward, con- 
founded with the low-lying, hazy clouds. He would 
have seen the smoke redden slowly, then disappear 
altogether, while from the roofs of the houses sharp 
tongues of flame darted in its place with a dull roar, 
now twisting about in spiral columns, now bending and 
rising again like the mast of a ship. It would have 
seemed to him as if all the windows would open soon to 
vomit fire. From time to time, as a roof fell in, he 
would have heard a smothered crash, he would have 


288 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


distinguished a more vivid flame, accompanied by 
myriads of sparks, and would have seen, in the blood- 
red light of the conflagration, arms glistening and a 
circle of soldiers extending around the village. He 
would have heard cries and laughter, and he would have 
said to himself in dismay, “God forgive me, an army 
is warming itself with a village ! ” 

In fact, a republican brigade of twelve or fifteen hun- 
dred men had found the village of Saint-Crepin aban- 
doned and had set fire to it. 

It was not cruelty, it was one method of carrying on 
war, — a plan of campaign, like any other; experience 
proved that it was the only judicious one. 

There was one isolated cottage, however, that was not 
burned; it seemed, indeed, as if all necessary precau- 
tions had been taken to prevent the fire reaching it. 
Two sentinels were on guard at the door, and every 
moment orderlies and aides-de-camp entered, coming 
out again almost immediately with orders. 

He who issued the orders was a young man, apparently 
of some twenty to twenty -two years of age. Long, fair 
hair, parted on the forehead, fell in wavy locks on 
either side of his thin white cheeks; his whole face 
bore the imprint of that fatal melancholy that is stamped 
upon the brow of those who are destined to die young. 
The blue cloak in which he was enveloped did not con- 
ceal his person so thoroughly that you could not see the 
insignia of his rank, the epaulets of a general; but the 
epaulets were of wool, the republican officers having 
patriotically ofi’ered the Convention all the gold on their 
coats. He was leaning over a table on which a map was 
spread; he was marking thereon with a pencil, by the 
light of a lamp which paled in the glare of the confla- 
gration, the road his troops were to follow. It was 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 289 

General Marceaii, who was destined to be killed three 
years later at Altenkirchen. 

“Alexandre!” he said, half rising. “Alexandre! 
you everlasting sleeper, are you dreaming of Santo 
Domingo that you sleep so soundly ? ” 

“What is it?” said the person thus apostrophized, 
springing to his feet with a start, his head almost 
touching the ceiling of the cabin; “what is it? is the 
enemy upon us ? ” 

The words were uttered with a slight Creole accent, 
which preserved their sweetness despite their menacing 
tone. 

“No; an order from General-in-Chief Westermann 
has arrived.” 

And while his colleague was reading the order, — for 
the person he addressed was his colleague, — Marceau 
gazed with childish curiosity at the muscular form of 
the herculean mulatto who stood before him. 

He was a man of twenty-eight, with short, curly hair, 
dark complexion, open forehead, and white teeth, whose 
almost superhuman strength was known throughout the 
army, which had seen him, on a day of battle, cut 
through a helmet to the cuirass, and on a day of parade 
smother between his legs a horse that was running away 
with him. He also had not long to live; but, less 
fortunate than Marceau, he was fated to die far from the 
field of battle, poisoned by order of a king. It was 
General Alexandre Dumas; it was my father. 

“ Who brought you this order ? ” he asked. 

“Delmar, the representative of the people.” 

“ Very good. Where are the poor devils to 
assemble ? ” 

“ In a forest a league and a half from here. Look at 
the map! there ’s the place.” 

19 


290 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


“True; but on the map we don’t see the ravines, the 
mountains, the felled trees, the thousand and one roads 
that run into and out of the right road, so that you can 
hardly tell where you are, even by daylight. Infernal 
country ! And with it all it ’s always so cold ! ” 

“ Look ! ” said Marceau, pushing the door open with 
his foot, and pointing to the burning village. “ Go 
out and warm yourself! Well, what have you there, 
citizens 1 ” 

The last words were addressed to a group of soldiers, 
who, while searching for supplies, had discovered, in 
a sort of dog kennel adjoining the cottage, a Vendean 
peasant, who seemed to be so drunk that it was prob- 
able that he had not been able to accompany the people 
of the village when they abandoned it. 

Let the reader imagine a farm laborer with a stupid 
face, long hair, a broad-brimmed hat, and a gray jacket; 
a creature made in man’s image, but a degree below the 
beasts, — for it was evident that the mass lacked instinct. 
Marceau asked him a few questions; patois and wine 
made his replies unintelligible. He was about to turn 
him over as a plaything to the soldiers, when General 
Dumas suddenly ordered the cottage to be cleared, and 
the prisoner locked in there. He was still at the door; 
a soldier pushed him inside; he stumbled across the 
room and leaned against the wall, swayed unsteadily 
a moment on his half-bent legs, then fell heavily at 
full length, and lay motionless on the floor. A sentry 
was posted at the door, and they did not even take the 
trouble to close the window. 

“ In an hour we can march,” said General Dumas to 
Marceau; “ we have a guide.” 

“Who is he?” 

“ That man.” 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


291 


‘‘Very good, if vve want to start to-morrow. There ’s 
twenty -four hours’ sleep in what that rascal has drunk.” 

Dumas smiled. 

“Come,” he said. And he led his colleague to the 
shed where the peasant had been discovered. A thin 
partition separated it from the interior of the cabin, 
and the partition was plentifully supplied with cracks, 
which enabled one to see what was going on there, and 
must have made it possible to hear every word spoken 
by the two generals who had been there a moment 
before. 

“ And now,” he added, lowering his voice, “ look ! ” 

Marceau obeyed, yielding to the ascendency his friend 
exerted over him, even in the ordinary affairs of life. 
He had some difficulty in distinguishing the prisoner, 
who, by accident, had fallen in the darkest corner of 
the cabin. He was still lying in the same place, abso- 
lutely motionless. Marceau turned to look for his 
colleague; he had disappeared. 

When he looked back into the cabin it seemed to him 
that the man who occupied it had made a slight move- 
ment; his head was now in a position which enabled 
him to embrace tlie whole interior at a glance. Soon 
he opened his eyes, with the prolonged yawn of one just 
waking from sleep, and saw that he was alone. 

A singular expression of satisfaction and intelligence 
passed over his face. 

From that moment it became evident to Marceau that 
he would have been the man’s dupe had not a keener 
glance than his divined the truth. He examined him, 
therefore, with renewed attention: his face had resumed 
its former expression, his eyes were closed, his move- 
ments were those of a man about to fall asleep again; in 
one of those movements he kicked the fragile table on 


292 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


which lay the map and the order from General Wester- 
mann which Marceau had thrown down there; every- 
thing fell to the floor; one of the sentries opened the 
door and put his head in at the noise, saw what had 
caused it, and said to his companion, with a laugh, — 

“ It ’s the citizen, dreaming.” 

The citizen heard the words, his eyes opened anew, 
and a threatening glance followed the soldier for an 
instant; then, with a swift movement, he seized the 
paper on which the order was written, and hid it in his 
breast. 

Marceau held his breath ; his right hand seemed glued 
to his sword hilt; his left hand and his forehead sus- 
tained the weight of his whole body as he leaned against 
the partition. 

The object of his attention was then lying on his side; 
soon he began to move slowly, helping himself along 
with his elbow and knee, but still in a recumbent posi- 
tion, toward the door of the cabin. The space between 
the threshold and the lower part of the door enabled 
him to see the legs of a group of soldiers standing out- 
side; thereupon he began, slowly and patiently, to 
crawl toward the open window. When he arrived within 
three feet of it, he felt in his breast for a weapon which 
was hidden there, gathered his body for a spring, and 
with a single leap — the leap of a jaguar — sprang out of 
the cabin. Marceau uttered a cry ; he had had no time 
to foresee or prevent that manoeuvre. Another cry 
answered his; it was a malediction. The Yendean, on 
landing outside the window, had found himself face to 
face with General Dumas. He had tried to strike him 
with his knife; but the general, seizing his wrist, had 
turned the knife against his breast, so that he had only 
to push to make the Yendean stab himself. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


293 


“I promised you a guide, Marceau; here ’s one, and 
an intelligent one, too, I fancy. I might order you 
shot, knave, ” he said to the peasant, “ but it suits my 
purpose better to allow you to live. You overheard our 
conversation, but you won’t report it to them who sent 
you. — Citizens,” — he addressed the soldiers whom the 
curious scene had attracted, — “do two of you take a 
hand each of this man, and take your places with him 
at the head of the column: he will be our guide; if 
you see that he ’s leading you astray, or if he makes a 
motion to run away, blow his brains out, and toss him 
over the hedge.” 

An order or two, issued in a low voice, set in motion 
the broken line of soldiers encircling the ashes that 
had been a village. The groups lengthened out, each 
platoon seemed welded to the next. A black line 
formed and marched down the long, sunken road that 
runs from Saint- Crepin to Montfaucon like a wheel in 
a rut; and when, a few moments later, the moon looked 
out from between two clouds, and shone for a moment 
on that line of bayonets gleaming noiselessly, you would 
have fancied that you were looking upon an immense 
black serpent with steel scales crawling through the 
darkness. 


294 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


II. 

A NIGHT march is a melancholy thing for an army. 
War is a fine thing on a fine day, when the blue sky 
looks down on the meZee, and crowds of people, stand- 
ing around the battlefield as on the benches at a circus, 
applaud the victors; when the quivering tones of the 
brass instruments make the heart’s courageous fibres 
vibrate, when the smoke from a thousand cannon covers 
you with its shroud, when friends and enemies are there 
to see how nobly you meet death : it is sublime. But 
at night! To have no idea how you will be attacked 
or how you are to defend yourself; to fall without seeing 
who strikes you or where the blow comes from; to feel 
those who are still on their feet stumble over you with- 
out knowing who you are, and walk upon you! Ah! 
then you do not pose as a gladiator; you roll, and 
twist, and bite the earth, and tear it with your nails: 
it is horrible! 

That is why the army marched in gloom and silence ; 
the soldiers knew that on either side of the road were 
high hedges, fields filled with furze and broom, and 
that at the end of the march there was to be a battle, 
— a night battle. 

They marched for about half an hour. From time to 
time, as I have already said, a moonbeam filtered be- 
tween two clouds, and revealed the peasant who acted 
as guide walking at the head of the column, his ear 
open to the slightest sound, and still watched by the 
two soldiers beside him. Sometimes they heard a~ 
rustling among the leaves at the side of the road. The 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


295 


head of the column would suddenly halt; several voices 
would shout, “ Qui vive ? ” There would be no reply, 
and the peasant would say , with a laugh , — 

“ It ’s a hare leaving his form.” 

Sometimes the two soldiers imagined that they saw 
something they could not clearly distinguish moving in 
front of them; they would say to each other, — 
“Look!” 

And the Vendean would reply, — 

“ It ’s your shadow : march on I ” 

Suddenly, at a turn in the road, they saw the figures 
of two men start up in front of them. They tried to cry 
out. One of them fell before he could utter a sound; 
the other staggered a moment, and had only time to 
cry, — 

“ Help!” 

Twenty musket shots rang out on the instant; by the 
light of the explosion they could distinguish three men 
running away: one of them staggered along the hank 
beside the road, hoping to reach the other side of the 
hedge. They ran to him, — he was not the guide; they 
questioned him, but he did not reply; a soldier ran his 
bayonet through his arm to see if he was dead, — he was. 

Thereupon Marceau became the guide. The study he 
had made of the localities gave him hope that he would 
not lose his way. In fact, after a quarter of an hour’s 
march they discovered the dark mass of the forest. 
There it was that, according to the notice the republi- 
cans had received, the inhabitants of several villages, 
the remnants of several armies, some eighteen hundred 
men all told, were to assemble to hear mass. 

The two generals divided their little force into several 
columns, with orders to surround the forest and march 
toward the centre by all the paths leading in that direc- 


296 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


tion; they calculated that half an hour would be suffi- 
cient to enable them to reach their respective positions. 
One platoon halted at the road that entered the forest 
where they approached it; the others stretched out in 
both directions to form a circle. For a moment or two 
their measured tread could be heard ; it grew fainter and 
fainter, then died away altogether, and everything was 
silent. The half-hour before a battle passes quickly. 
The soldier hardly has time to see if his musket is well 
primed, and to say to his neighbor, — 

“ I have twenty or thirty francs in the corner of my 
knapsack; if I die, send them to my mother.” 

The word “ Forward ! ” rang out, and every one jumped 
as if he were not expecting it. 

As they advanced, it seemed to them that the cross- 
roads which formed the centre of the forest was lighted; 
as they drew near they could see the flaming torches; 
soon objects became more distinct, and a spectacle that 
no one of them had conceived was offered to their 
gaze. 

Upon an altar, roughly made of stones piled together, 
the cure of Sainte-Marie de Rhe was saying mass; old 
men stood around the altar, torch in hand, and all about 
them knelt women and children praying. Between the 
republicans and that group a wall of men was stationed, 
and presented the same plan of battle for defence, on a 
narrower base, as that adopted for the attack. It would 
have been evident enough that they had been warned, 
even if the guide who had fled had not been a promi- 
nent figure in the front rank; now he was a Vendean 
soldier in full uniform, wearing on the left breast the 
red cloth heart which was used as a ral lying-sign, and 
on the hat the white handkerchief which took the place 
of a plume. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


297 


The Vendeans did not wait to be attacked; they had 
stationed sharp-shooters in the woods, and began the 
firing. The republicans marched on, with their muskets 
ready, but without firing a shot, without replying to 
the constant fire of their enemies, without speaking, 
except to say, after each discharge, — 

“ Close up ! close up ! ” 

The priest had not finished his mass, and he kept on; 
his flock seemed unconscious of what was taking place, 
and remained on their knees. The republican troops 
continued to advance. When they were within thirty 
paces of the enemy , the front rank knelt on one knee ; 
three lines of muskets were lowered like grain bent by 
the wind. The word to fire was given: they saw the 
light through the Vendean ranks, and some bullets, 
passing through, struck down women and children at 
the foot of the altar. For a moment there was a great 
outcry and confusion in the assemblage. The priest 
raised the host, all heads were bowed to the earth, and 
all was silence once more. 

The republicans discharged a second volley at ten 
paces, as calmly as at a review, with as much precision 
as if they were firing at a target. The Vendeans replied, 
and after that neither side had time to reload; it was 
the bayonet’s turn, and here all the advantage lay with 
the republicans, who were regularly armed. The priest 
continued to say mass. 

The Vendeans fell back; whole ranks fell, with no 
sound save muttered maledictions. The priest saw 
what was happening; he made a sign, — the torches 
were extinguished, and the battle was continued in the 
darkness. Thereafter it was simply a scene of disorder 
and carnage, in which every one struck without seeing 
where he struck, savagely, and died without asking 


298 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


quarter, which is seldom given wlien the request is 
made and answered in the same tongue. 

But the words, “Mercy! mercy!” were uttered in a 
heartrending tone at Marceau’s knees, as his sword was 
raised to strike. 

It was a young Vendean, a mere child, unarmed, who 
was trying to escape from the horrible mMee. “ Mercy ! 
mercy! ” he exclaimed; “ in Heaven’s name, in the name 
of your mother ! ” 

The general led him a few yards away from the battle- 
field, to remove him from the glances of his soldiers; 
but he was soon compelled to stop : the young man had 
fainted. Such excessive terror on the part of a soldier 
astonished the general ; he was none the less zealous in 
his efforts to assist him; he opened his coat to give him 
air: it was a woman. 

There was not an instant to lose; the Convention’s 
orders were precise. Every Vendean taken under arms, 
or present at a meeting, whatever his or her sex or age, 
was to perish on the scaffold. He seated the girl at the 
foot of a tree and hurried back to the field of battle. 
Among the dead he noticed a young republican ofificer 
whose figure seemed to him to be almost the same as 
the stranger’s; he speedily removed his coat and his 
hat, and returned to the Vendean. 

The cool night air soon restored her to conscious- 
ness. 

“ Father! fatlier! ” were her first words. 

Then she rose and pressed her hands against her fore- 
head as if to collect her thoughts. 

“ Oh ! it is terrible! I was with him, and I deserted 
him. Father, father! He must be dead! ” 

“ Mademoiselle Blanche, young mistress,” said a man 
whose head suddenly appeared behind the tree, “ the 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 299 

Marquis de Beaulieu lives; he is saved. Vive le roi 
and the good cause ! ” 

The man who said these words disappeared like a 
ghost, but not so quickly that Marceau had not time to 
recognize the peasant of Saint-Crepin. 

“ Tinguy, Tinguy ! ” cried the girl, putting out her 
arms to the farmer. 

“ Silence ! ” said the general ; “ a single word will 
betray you. I could not save you then, and I wish to 
save you. Put on this hat and coat and wait here.” 

He returned to the battlefield, gave orders for the 
troops to fall back upon Cholet, left his colleague in 
command, and returned to the young Vendean. 

He found her ready to go with him. They walked 
together toward a sort of high-road, where Marceau’s 
servant was waiting with horses, which could not go 
into the heart of the country where the roads are naught 
hut ravines and bogs. There his embarrassment re- 
doubled. He feared that his young companion would 
not know how to ride, and had not the strength to walk; 
but she soon reassured him by the way in which she 
managed her mount, with less strength, to be sure, but 
with as much grace and address as the best horseman.^ 

She saw Marceau’s surprise and smiled. 

“You will be less astonished,” said she, “when you 
know me. You will see by what chain of circumstances 

1 Even if what follows should not explain this skill, which is 
rare among us in a woman, the custom of the province would jus- 
tify it. Even the ladies of tlie chateaux ride, literally speaking, 
like a Longchamps dandy ; but they wear under their dresses, 
which the saddle raises, trousers like those worn by children. 
The women of the lower classes do not take even that precaution, 
although the color of their skin led me for a long time to think the 
contrary. — {Author's note.) 


300 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


manly exercises have become familiar to me; you seem 
so kind that I will tell you the whole story of my life, 
which has been so full of trouble, young as I am.” 

“Yes, yes, but later,” said Marceau; “we shall have 
time enough, for you are my prisoner, and for your own 
sake I do not propose to restore your liberty. What we 
have to do now is to get to Cholet as fast as we can. 
So sit firmly in your saddle, and put your horse to the 
gallop, my cavalier! ” 

“ Gallop it is I ” rejoined the Vendean. 

Three quarters of an hour later they arrived at Cholet. 
The commanding general was at the mayor’s office. 
Marceau went up, leaving his servant and his prisoner 
at the door. He made a report of his expedition in a 
few words, and went with his little party to seek quar- 
ters at the Hotel des Sans-Culottes, a name which had 
replaced on the sign the words, “ Au Grand Saint- 
Nicolas.” 

Marceau took two rooms. He escorted the young woman 
to one of them, urged her to lie down without undress- 
ing and snatch a few moments’ rest, which she must 
sadly need after the horrible night she had passed, and 
then shut himself into his own room; for now he had 
the responsibility of another life on his hands, and he 
must needs think of the means of preserving it. 

Blanche, too, had food for thought in plenty: in the 
first place her father, and secondly this young repub- 
lican with the sweet face and voice. It all seemed like 
a dream to her. She walked about her room to make 
sure that she was really awake, pausing in front of a 
mirror to convince herself that it was really she. Then 
she wept as she thought of her desolate position. The 
idea of death — of death on the scaffold — did not occur 
to her; Marceau had said, in his gentle voice, — 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


301 


“ I will save you.” 

And, after all, why should she, born only yesterday, 
be put to death? Lovely, inoffensive creature that she 
was, why should men demand her head and her blood? 
She could hardly believe that she was in any danger. 
Her father, on the contrary, a Vendean leader, killed 
others, and might he killed; hut she, a poor girl, whose 
hand had but just quitted the grasp of childhood ! Ah ! 
far from being disturbed by evil omens, life seemed 
joyous and fair to her, the future boundless; the war 
would come to an end, the empty chateau would be 
filled with guests once more. Some day a young man, 
worn by fatigue, would seek hospitality there; he would 
be twenty-four or twenty-five years old , have a sweet 
voice, fair hair, and a general’s uniform, and he would 
remain there a long while. — Dream on, dream on, poor 
Blanche ! 

There is a period of youth when misfortune seems so 
incongruous with life that it seems that it can never 
gain a footing there; however melancholy a thought 
may be, it ends with a smile. It is because we see life 
from only one side of the horizon ; the past has not yet 
had time to make us doubt the future. 

Marceau also was dreaming; but he already knew 
something of life. He was familiar with the political 
antipathies of the moment; he knew the exigencies of 
a revolution ; he was trying to devise a means of saving 
Blanche, who was sleeping. A single expedient sug- 
gested itself to him : that was to escort her himself to 
Nantes, where his family lived. He had not seen his 
mother or sister in three years, and being within a few 
leagues of the town, it seemed quite natural that he 
should apply to the commanding general for leave of 
absence. He resolved to act upon that idea. The day 


302 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


was just breaking; he repaired to General Westermann’s 
quarters, and his request was granted without hesitation. 
He asked that the necessary papers be given him at 
once, thinking that Blanche could not start too soon; it 
was essential that the furlough should bear a second 
signature, that of the representative of the people, — 
Delmar. He had arrived only a half-hour before with 
despatches; he was taking a few moments’ sleep in the 
adjoining room, and the general promised to send 
Marceau the document as soon as he awoke. 

On entering the inn, he met General Dumas, for 
whom he was looking. The two friends had no secrets 
from each other; the elder was soon made acquainted 
with the whole adventure. While breakfast was being 
prepared, Marceau went up to his prisoner’s room, learn- 
ing that she had already asked for him ; he announced a 
visit from his colleague, who was not slow to present 
himself. His first words reassured Blanche, and, after 
a moment’s conversation, she felt nothing more than the 
inevitable embarrassment of a young girl with two men 
whom she hardly knows. 

They were about to take their seats at the table, when 
the door opened. Delmar, the representative of the 
people, appeared on the threshold. 

We had no time, at the beginning of the narrative, to 
say a word concerning this new personage. 

He was one of those men whom Kobespierre used 
like an arm at the end of his own to enable him to 
reach into the provinces; who believed that they under- 
stood his system of regeneration because he said to them, 
“ We must regenerate; ” and in whose hands the guillo- 
tine was more active than intelligent. 

The sinister apparition made Blanche tremble, even 
before she knew who he was. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


303 


“ Aha! ” said he to Marcean, “ so you want to leave 
us already, citizen-general ? But you behaved so well 
last night that I can refuse you nothing. I am a little 
inclined to find fault with you, however, for having 
allowed the Marquis de Beaulieu to escape; I had 
promised the Convention to send them his head.” 

Blanche was standing, pale and cold as a statue of 
Terror. Marceau unconcernedly stood in front of her. 

" But a thing postponed is not abandoned,” continued 
Delmar. “ The republican greyhounds have a good nose 
and good teeth, and we are on liis trail. Here is your 
furlough,” he added. “ It is all right, and you can start 
when you choose. But I have come to ask you to invite 
me to breakfast first; I could not bear to part with such 
a gallant fellow as you are without drinking to the 
health of the Republic and the extermination of the 
brigands.” 

In the position then occupied by the two generals this 
mark of esteem was anything but agreeable to them. 
Blanche had taken her seat and recovered her courage 
in some degree. They took their places, and the young 
girl, in order not to sit opposite Delmar, was obliged to 
sit beside him. She sat far enough away from him not 
to touch him, and gradually became more at ease as she 
noticed that the representative of the people paid more 
attention to the meal than to those who partook of it 
with him. From time to time, however, a sanguinary 
word or two fell from his lips, and sent a shudder 
through the girl’s veins. But, after all, there seemed to 
be no real danger for her; the generals hoped that he 
would leave them without addressing her a word directly. 
The desire to start afforded Marceau a pretext for hurry- 
ing through the meal. It was drawing to a close, and 
they were all beginning to breathe more at ease, when 


304 BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 

a discharge of musketry was heard on the public square 
in front of the inn; the generals jumped for their 
weapons, which they had laid aside. Delmar stopped 
them. 

“Good, my brave fellows!” he said, laughing, and 
balancing himself on the legs of his chair, — “ good ! 
I like to see that you are on your guard ; but come back 
to the table, — there 's nothing for you to do out there.” 

“ What is the noise ? ” Marceau asked. 

“Nothing,” said Delmar; “last night’s prisoners 
being shot.” 

Blanche uttered a cry of horror. 

“ Oh, the wretches ! ” she cried. 

Delmar put down his glass, which he was about to 
put to his lips, and slowly turned toward her. 

“Ah! this is a fine state of things,” he said; “if 
soldiers tremble like women, we must make the women 
soldiers. To be sure, you ’re very young,” he added, 
taking both her hands and looking her in the face ; “ but 
you will get used to it.” 

“Oh, never! never!” cried Blanche, without reflect- 
ing how dangerous it was for her to manifest her feel- 
ings before such a witness. “ I shall never get used to 
such horrors.” 

“My child,” rejoined Delmar, releasing her hands, 
“ do you think that a nation can be regenerated without 
some blood-letting, that factions can be put down with- 
out erecting scaffolds? Did you ever see a revolution 
pass the level of equality over a people without taking 
off some heads? Woe to the great at such times, for 
the staff of Tarquin has marked them out! ” 

He paused for a moment, then continued, — 

“After all, what is death? A dreamless sleep, with- 
out an awakening. What is blood? A red liquor 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


305 


almost liko that contained in this bottle, which pro- 
duces no effect on our minds except because of the idea 
we attach to it. Sombreuil drank it. Well, have you 
nothing to say? Come, haven’t you any philanthropic 
argument at your tongue’s end ? A Girondin in your 
place would n’t lack an abundance of them.” 

Blanche was compelled, therefore, to continue the 
conversation. 

“ Oh,” she said, trembling, " are you quite sure that 
God has given you the right to strike thus ? ” 

“ Does not God himself strike ? ” 

“Yes, hut He looks beyond life, while man, when he 
kills, knows neither what he gives nor what he takes 
away.” 

“ Very good. The soul is immortal or it is not; if the 
body is only dust, is it a crime to restore to dust a little 
sooner what God borrowed of it ? If a soul inhabits it, 
and that soul is immortal , I cannot kill it ; the body is 
only a garment which I remove from it, or, rather, a 
prison from which I set it free. Now, listen to my 
advice, for I propose to give you some advice: keep 
your philosophical reflections and your schoolboy argu- 
ments to defend your own life, if ever you fall into 
Charette’s hands or Bernard de Marigny’s, for they 
would show you no more mercy than I have shown their 
men. As for myself, you might possibly have reason 
to repent repeating them in my presence: remember.” 

He went out. 

There was a moment’s silence. Marceau laid aside 
his pistols, which he had cocked during this conver- 
sation. 

“ By my soul! ” he said, pointing after him with his 
finger," never was man so near death without suspecting 
it as you were just now! — Do you know, Blanche, 
20 


806 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


that if a word or a gesture had escaped him, indicating 
that he recognized you, I would have blown out bis 
brains ? ” 

She was not listening. A single thought had posses- 
sion of her mind: that that man was under instructions 
to pursue the remnant of the array commanded by the 
Marquis de Beaulieu. 

“ 0 my God! ” she said, hiding her face in her hands. 
“0 my God! when I think that my father may fall 
into that tiger’s hands; that, if he had been taken 
prisoner last night, it is possible that he might now be — 
It is execrable, it is atrocious! is there no longer any 
pity in the world? — Oh, forgive me, forgive me! ” she 
said to Marceau. “ Who has more reason than I to know 
the contrary? My God! my God! ” 

At that moment the servant entered, and announced 
that the horses were ready. 

" Let us go, in Heaven’s name ! there is blood in the 
air we breathe here.” 

“ Let us go,” echoed Marceau. 

And all three went down the stairs together. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


307 


III. 

Marceau found at the door a detachment of thirty horse, 
whom the commanding general had ordered under arms 
to escort him to Nantes. Dumas accompanied them 
for some distance ; but about a league from Cholet his 
friend insisted that he should return; if he should go 
farther it would be dangerous for him to return alone. 
So he took leave of them and galloped back, soon pass- 
ing out of sight at a turn in the road. 

Then, too, Marceau wished to be left alone with the 
young Vendean. She had the story of her life to tell 
him, and it seemed to him that the story must be a 
deeply interesting one. He therefore rode up beside 
Blanche. 

“ Well,” he said, “now that we are left to ourselves, 
and have a long ride before us, let us talk. Let us talk 
of you. I know who you are, but that is all. How 
came you to be at that meeting ? How did you acquire 
the habit of wearing man’s clothes? Speak! we soldiers 
are accustomed to hear only sharp, stern words. Talk 
to me a long while of yourself, of your childhood, I beg 
you. ” 

Marceau, without knowing why, could not accustom 
himself to use the republican form of speech of the time 
in addressing Blanche. 

Thereupon Blanche told him of her life: how her 
mother had died young, and left her, a mere child, to 
the care of the Marquis de Beaulieu ; how her educa- 
tion, guided by a man, had made her familiar with 


308 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


exercises which, when the insurrection broke out in La 
Vendee, had proved so useful to her, and had enabled 
her to accompany her father. She described all the 
events of the war, from the emeute at Saint-Florent 
down to the combat in which Marceau had saved her 
life. She talked a long while, as he had asked her, for 
she saw that it gave him pleasure to listen. Just as 
she finished her narrative, Nantes appeared on the 
horizon, its lights trembling in the haze. The little 
party crossed the Loire, and a few moments later Marceau 
was in his mother’s arms. 

After the first greetings he presented to his family his 
young travelling companion; a few words sufficed to 
arouse the lively interest of his mother and sisters. 
Blanche had no sooner expressed a wish to resume the 
garments of her sex than the two girls led her away, 
and disputed with each other the pleasure of acting as 
her lady’s maid. 

This conduct, simple as it may appear at first sight, 
acquired a great value by reason of the existing circum- 
stances. Nantes was writhing under the proconsulate 
of Carrier. 

It was a strange spectacle for the mind as well as for 
the eyes, — the spectacle of a whole city bleeding from 
the bites of a single man. We wonder what can be the 
source of the power that one will exerts over eighty 
thousand individuals whom it dominates, and how it is 
that, when a single man says: “I wish it! ” all the 
others do not rise and say : “ Very good ! but we do not 
wish it I ” The fact is that servility becomes a fixed 
habit in the mind of the masses, and that only individ- 
uals sometimes have a burning desire to be free. As 
Shakespeare says, the people know no other way of 
rewarding Caesar’s assassin than by making him Caesar. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


309 


That is why there are tyrants of liberty as there are 
tyrants of monarchy. 

And so blood was flowing in the streets of Nantes, 
and Carrier, who was to Eobespierre what the hyena 
is to the tiger and the jackal to the lion, gorged himself 
with the purest of that blood, pending the time when 
he should give it back, mingled with his own. 

There were new methods of massacre. The guillo- 
tine became notched and blunted so quickly ! He con- 
ceived the idea of the noyades^ whose name has become 
inseparable from his; boats were built for the purpose 
in the harbor, — people knew for what purpose and 
went to look at them on the ways. It was a novel and 
interesting thing to see the airholes twenty feet long, 
which opened so as to drop into the sea the wretched 
creatures set apart for that form of punishment; and, on 
the fatal day, when they were tried, there were almost 
as many people on the bank as when a vessel is launched 
with a wreath about its mainmast, and flags on every 
yard. 

Oh! woe thrice over to the men who, like Carrier, 
have exerted their imaginations in inventing variations 
upon death; for every method of destroying man comes 
easily to man! Woe to those who, acting upon no 
theory, have committed useless murders! They are the 
ones who cause our mothers to tremble at the words 
revolution and republic^ inseparable in their minds from 
WMSsacre and destruction; and our mothers make us 
men, and who among us, as he went forth from his 
mother’s hands at fifteen, did not shudder, too, at the 
words revolution and republic ? which of us has not had 
to make over his whole political education before he 
dared look coolly upon that date which he had long 
looked upon as fatal, — 93? which of us has not re- 


310 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


quired to put forth all his strength as a man of twenty- 
live to look in the face the three colossi of the Kevolu- 
tion, — Miraheau, Danton, Eohespierre? But at last 
we have become accustomed to the sight of them; we 
have studied the ground on which they walked, the 
principles on which they acted, and involuntarily we 
have recalled these awful words of another time : Each 
of them fell because he sought to put a drag on the 
executioner^ s tumbril, which still had work to do. They 
did not outstrip the Eevolution; the Revolution out- 
stripped them. 

Let us not complain, however; rehabilitation is 
quickly accomplished in these days, for now the people 
write the hktory of the people. It was not so in the 
time of Messieurs the historiographers of the crown; 
did I not hear it said when I was a child, that Louis XI. 
was a had king, and Louis XIV. a great prince? 

Let us return to Marceau and a family whom his 
name protected even against Carrier. The young gen- 
eral’s reputation for republicanism was so pure that 
suspicion had not dared attack his mother and sisters. 
That is why one of them, a girl of sixteen, as if she 
were entirely ignorant of what was taking place about 
her, loved and was loved, and Marceau’s mother, timid 
as a mother, seeing in a husband an additional protector, 
hurried on as much as she could a marriage which was 
on the point of being celebrated when Marceau and the 
young Vendean arrived at Nantes. The general’s return 
at such a moment was a twofold joy. 

Blanche was turned over to the two girls, who became 
her friends as they kissed her; for there is an age when 
every girl imagines that she has found a friend forever 
in the friend she has known but an hour. They left 
the room together; a matter almost as important as the 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


311 


marriage itself filled their minds: the furnishing one of 
their number with clothes, for Blanche did not choose 
to continue to wear her masculine garments. 

Soon they brought her back, arrayed in the clothes of 
both; she had had to put on a dress belonging to one, 
and the other’s shawl. Foolish girls! to he sure, their 
combined ages did not equal that of Marceau’s mother, 
who was still beautiful. 

When Blanche returned, the young general stepped 
toward her, and halted in amazement. In the costume 
she had worn before, he had hardly noticed her celestial 
beauty and her charms, which she had resumed with 
her woman’s garb. She had done her utmost, it is 
true, to appear pretty: for a moment, before her mirror, 
she had forgotten war. Vendee, and carnage. The most 
artless soul has a coquetry of her own when she begins 
to love and seeks to please the person she loves. 

Marceau tried to speak, but could not utter a word. 
Blanche smiled, and held out her hand, overjoyed, for 
she saw that she appeared to him as beautiful as she 
wished to appear. 

That evening the young fiance of Marceau’s sister 
came to the house, and as all love is selfish, from self- 
love to maternal love, there was one house in the city 
of Kantes where all was happiness and joy, when round 
about it all was tears and sorrow. 

Ah ! how Blanche and Marceau abandoned themselves 
to the delight of their new life ! how far behind them 
the other life seemed ! It was almost a dream. But 
from time to time Blanche’s heart grew heavy and tears 
gushed from her eyes; it was when the thought of her 
father came suddenly to her mind. Marceau consoled 
her; then, to divert her thoughts, told her of his first 
campaigns ; how the schoolboy had become a soldier at 


312 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


fifteen, an officer at seventeen, colonel at nineteen, gen- 
eral at twenty-one. Blanche made him repeat the story 
often; for in all that he said there was no word of 
another love. 

And yet Marceau had loved, — loved with all the 
strength of his heart, at least so he thought. Then he 
had been deceived, betrayed; contempt had with great 
difficulty found a resting-place in a heart so young that 
it contained nothing but passions. The blood that 
boiled in his veins had slowly cooled, — a melancholy 
coldness had taken the place of exaltation; in fact, 
Marceau, before he knew Blanche, was nothing more 
than a sick man, deprived, by the sudden cessation of 
fever, of the strength and energy which he owed to its 
presence alone. 

And now all the dreams of happiness, all the ele- 
ments of a new life, all the joyous impulses of youth, 
which Marceau thought had vanished forever so far as 
he was concerned, appeared again, still undefined in the 
distance, but where he might hope to reach them some 
day. He himself was astonished to find that a smile 
came sometimes to his lips without apparent cause; he 
breathed with the full force of his lungs, and no longer 
felt the tedium of living, which, only the day before, 
sapped his strength and made him long for speedy death 
as the only barrier that grief cannot pass. 

Blanche, for her part, being drawn toward Marceau at 
first by a natural feeling of gratitude, attributed to that 
feeling the varying emotions that agitated her. Was it 
not a simple thing that she should desire the constant 
presence of the man who had saved her life? The 
words that fell from her preserver’s lips could hardly 
be indifferent to her? Could his face, stamped with 
such profound melancholy, fail to awaken her compas- 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


313 


sion? And when she saw him sigh as he gazed at her, 
was she not always ready to say to him: “ What can I 
do for you, my friend, who have done so much for 
me? ” 

Under the sway of these varying sentiments, which 
gained fresh strength every day, Blanche and Marceau 
passed the first part of their stay at Nantes; at last the 
time for the marriage of the young general’s sister 
arrived. 

From among the jewels he had ordered for her, 
Marceau selected a beautiful and valuable set, which 
he offered to Blanche. She gazed at it, at first, with 
girlish coquetry, but soon she closed the case. 

“Are jewels in harmony with my situation?” she 
said sadly. “ Jewels for me ! while my father is flying, 
perhaps, from farm to farm, begging for a crust of bread 
to keep him alive, and for leave to seek shelter in a 
barn; while I, myself proscribed — No; let my simple 
dress screen me from observation ; remember that I may 
be recognized.” . 

Marceau urged her in vain; she would consent to 
accept nothing but an artificial red rose, which she saw 
among the ornaments. 

The churches were closed, so that the marriage cere- 
mony was performed at the Hotel de Ville. It was short 
and melancholy; the young girls regretted the choir 
decorated with candles and flowers, the canopy held 
over the heads of the young couple, beneath which the 
laughter of those who hold it is mingled with the bene- 
diction of the priest, who says: “Go hence, my children, 
and be happy ! ” 

At the door of the Hotel de Ville a deputation of 
watermen awaited the bride and groom. Marceau’s 
rank was responsible for that mark of respect to his 


314 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEF. 


sister; one of the men, whose face seemed familiar to 
the general, held two bouquets: he gave one to the 
bride, then walked up to Blanche, who gazed fixedly 
at him, and presented her with the other. 

“ Tinguy, where is my father?” she asked, turning 
pale. 

“ At Saint-Florent, ” replied the waterman. “ Take 
this bouquet; there ’s a letter among the flowers. Vive 
le roi and the good cause. Mademoiselle Blanche ! ” 

Blanche tried to stop him, to speak to him, to ques- 
tion him ; he had disappeared. Marceau recognized the 
guide, and, in spite of himself, admired the peasant’s 
devotion, adroitness and audacity. 

Blanche read the letter with an anxious heart. The 
Vendeans were meeting with defeat after defeat ; a whole 
population was leaving the country, recoiling before fire 
and famine. The rest of the letter was devoted to ac- 
knowledgments to Marceau. The marquis had learned 
everything through Tinguy’s watchfulness. Blanche 
was depressed; the letter cast her back into the midst 
of the horrors of war; she leaned on Marceau’s arm 
more heavily than usual, she spoke to him more inti- 
mately and in a softer voice. Marceau would have 
liked her to be even more depressed ; for the deeper the 
melancholy, the more completely reserve is cast aside; 
and, as I have already said, there is much selfishness in 
love. 

During the ceremony, a stranger, who had, he said, 
intelligence of the utmost importance to communicate to 
Marceau, was ushered into the salon. Marceau, lean- 
ing toward Blanche, who had his arm, did not notice 
him when he entered; hut suddenly he felt her arm 
tremble, and raised his head; they were face to face 
with Delmar. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


315 


The representative of the people approached slowly, 
with his eyes fixed on Blanche and a smile playing 
about his lips; Marceau, his brow bathed in sweat, 
watched him come forward as Don Juan watches the 
statue of the Commander. 

“ Have you a brother, citizeness 1 ” 

Blanche stammered something, and was on the point 
of throwing herself into Marceau’s arms. Delmar 
continued : — 

“ If my memory and your resemblance to him do not 
lead me astray, we breakfasted together atCholet. How 
does it happen that I have not seen him in the ranks of 
the republican army since that time ? ” 

Blanche felt that her strength was deserting her. 
Delmar’s piercing eye watched the progress of her con- 
fusion, and she was about to quail beneath it, when it 
turned from her and fastened upon Marceau. 

Then it was Delmar’s turn to tremble. The young 
general had his hand on the hilt of his sword, which he 
grasped convulsively. The face of the representative 
of the people soon resumed its habitual expression. He 
seemed to have entirely forgotten what he had come to 
say, and, taking Marceau by the arm, he led him into 
a window recess, talked with him for some minutes 
concerning the situation of affairs in La Vendee, and 
informed him that he had come to Hantes to agree with 
Carrier as to the new and stricter measures to be adopted 
with regard to the insurgents. He told him that 
General Dumas had been recalled to Paris; and, taking 
leave of him before long, he passed with a bow and a 
smile the chair upon which Blanche had fallen when 
she released Marceau’s arm, and on which she had 
remained, pale and cold. 

Two hours later Marceau received orders to start 


316 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


instantly to rejoin the army of the West and resume 
command of his brigade. 

This sudden and unexpected order astonished him; 
he fancied that he could detect some connection between 
it and the scene that had taken place just before. His 
furlough did not expire for a fortnight. He hurried to 
Delmar’s lodgings to obtain some explanation from him; 
Delraar had left Nantes immediately after his interview 
with Carrier. 

It was necessary to obey; to hesitate was to court 
destruction. At that period the generals were subject 
to the authority of the representatives of the people sent 
by the Convention, and, if some reverses were caused 
by their bungling, more than one victory was due to the 
alternative constantly presented to the leaders, of win- 
ning battles or losing their heads on the scaffold. 

Marceau was with Blanche when he received the 
order. Dazed by a blow so entirely unexpected, he 
had not the courage to inform her of his departure, 
which would leave her alone and defenceless in the 
midst of a city whose streets were watered every day by 
the blood of her compatriots. She noticed his embar- 
rassment, and, as her anxiety conquered her bashful- 
ness, she drew near him with the unquiet glance of a 
woman who knows that she is beloved and has the right 
to ask questions. Marceau handed her the order he had 
received. Blanche had no sooner cast her eyes upon it 
than she realized the peril to which her protector would 
be exposed by failure to obey; her heart sank within 
her, and yet she summoned courage to urge him to go 
without delay. Women have more of that sort of co^ur- 
age than men, because, in their case, it is connected 
with modesty. 

Marceau gazed sadly at her. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


317 


And do you bid me go, Blanclie, — you? Indeed,” 
he said, rising, and as if speaking to himself, “ what 
reason have I to expect anything else ? Madman that 
I was! When I have thought of going away, it has 
occurred to me, sometimes, that it might cost her some 
regret and a few tears.” 

He strode up and down the room. 

“ Madman ! regret 1 tears 1 As if I were not perfectly 
indifferent to her I ” 

As he turned he found himself face to face with 
Blanche. Two tears were rolling down the girl’s 
cheeks; she did not speak, but her breast rose and fell 
with her spasmodic sobs. Marceau felt the tears in his 
eyes, too. 

“Oh! forgive me,” he said; “forgive me, Blanche, 
but I am very unhappy, and unhappiness makes me 
suspicious. Living thus, beside you, my life seemed 
to be mingled with yours; how separate your hours 
from my hours, my days from your days? I had for- 
gotten everything; I believed that this would last for- 
ever. Oh! misery! misery! I have been dreaming, 
and now I am awake. Blanche,” he added, more 
calmly, but in a more melancholy tone, “the war we 
are engaged in is a cruel and murderous one; it is pos- 
sible that we may not meet again. ” 

He took Blanche’s hand; she was sobbing. 

“ Promise me that if I fall far away from you — I 
have always had a presentiment, Blanche, that my life 
would be a short one — promise me that you will think 
of me sometimes; that my name will sometimes come 
to your lips, even if it be only in a dream; and I, 
Blanche, promise you that, if there is time between life 
and death for me to pronounce a name, a single one, it 
shall be yours.” 


318 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


Blanche was choked by her tears; but there were in 
her eyes a thousand promises more tender than those 
Marceau demanded. With one hand she pressed Mar- 
ceau’s, who was at her feet, and with the other pointed 
to the red rose, which she wore in her hair. 

“ Forever ! forever ! ” she faltered. 

And she fell in a swoon. 

Marceau ’s cries summoned his mother and sisters. 
He thought that Blanche was dead; he was writhing on 
the floor at her feet. In love everything is exaggerated, 
— hopes and fears. The soldier was only a child. 

Blanche opened her eyes, and blushed when she saw 
Marceau at her feet and his family around him. 

“He is going away,” she said; “perhaps to fight 
against my father. Oh ! spare my father if he should 
fall into your hands; remember that his death would 
kill me. What more can you ask ? ” she added, lower- 
ing her eyes. “ I did not think of my father until after 
I thought of you.” 

Thereupon, summoning all her Courage, she begged 
Marceau to go. He himself realized the necessity of 
doing so, and no longer resisted her entreaties and his 
mother’s. The necessary orders were given, and, an 
hour later, he had said farewell to Blanche and his 
family. 

Marceau left Nantes by the same road he and Blanche 
had ridden over together; he allowed his horse to take 
his own gait, for at every step he was reminded of some 
passage in the young Yendean’s narrative. He reviewed, 
so to speak, the story she had told him; and the danger 
to which she was exposed, of which he had not thought 
while he was with her, seemed to him much greater now 
that he had left her. Every word Delmar had spoken 
rang in his ears; every moment he was on the point of 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


319 


stopping his horse and returning to Nantes; and it re- 
quired all his good sense to prevent his yielding to his 
craving to see her again. 

If Marceau had been able to think of aught beside 
the subject that filled his whole mind, he would have 
noticed a horseman, in the distance , coming toward him, 
who, after drawing rein a moment to make sure that he 
was not mistaken, urged his horse to a gallop to join 
him ; and he would have recognized General Dumas as 
promptly as he himself was recognized by him. 

The friends leaped from their horses and threw them- 
selves into each other’s arms. 

At the same instant a man, with perspiration dripping 
from his hair, his face and clothes scratched and torn, 
leaped over a hedge, rolled, rather than ran, down the 
hank, and fell, exhausted, almost voiceless, at the feet 
of the two friends, uttering the one word ; — 

“ Arrested ! ” 

It was T inguy. 

“Arrested? who? Blanche?” cried Marceau. 

The peasant made an affirmative gesture; the poor 
fellow could not speak. He had made five leagues, 
running across fields and hedges, through furze and 
broom; he might perhaps have run one league, two 
leagues more, to overtake Marceau; but, having over- 
taken him, he collapsed. 

Marceau gazed at him with open mouth and staring 
eyes. 

“Arrested! Blanche arrested!” he kept repeating, 
while his friend put his flask of wine to the peasant’s 
clinched teeth. “ Blanche arrested ! That was why 
they sent me away. Alexandre,” he cried, taking his 
friend’s hand, and forcing him to rise, — “ Alexandre, I 


320 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


am going back to Nantes; you must go with me, for my 
life, my future, my happiness, all are there.” 

His teeth chattered violently; his whole body was 
shaken by a convulsive trembling. 

“ Let the man tremble who has dared to lay his hand 
on Blanche ! Do you know that I love her with all the 
strength of my soul; that life is not possible for me 
without her, that I must save her or die? Oh! fool, 
madman that I was to leave her ! — Blanche arrested ! 
where has she been taken ? ” 

Tinguy, to whom that question was put, was begin- 
ning to come to himself. The veins in his forehead 
swelled as if they were about to burst; his eyes were 
injected with blood; and his chest was so oppressed, his 
breathing so labored, that he could hardly reply when 
the question was put to him a second time. 

“ To the Bouffays prison.” 

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the 
two friends started back toward Nantes at a gallop. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


321 


IV. 

There was not a moment to lose ; therefore the friends 
rode straight to the house occupied by Carrier on Place 
du Cours. When they arrived, Marceau leaped from 
his horse, mechanically took his pistols, which were 
in the holsters, concealed them beneath his coat, and 
rushed to the apartments of the man who held Blanche’s 
destiny in his hands. His friend followed him more 
calmly, although fully prepared to defend him if he 
needed his assistance, and to risk his life as recklessly 
as upon the battlefield. But the deputy of the Moun- 
tain knew too well how universally abhorred he was not 
to he suspicious , and neither entreaties nor threats could 
procure the two generals an interview. 

Marceau returned to the street more tranquilly than 
his friend expected. In the last moment or two he 
seemed to have adopted a new plan, which he matured 
in haste, and there was no further doubt as to his pur- 
pose when he begged General Dumas to go at once to 
the post house and wait for him at the Boulfays gate 
with a carriage and post horses. 

Marceau’s name and rank opened the prison doors to 
him; he ordered the jailer to show him to the cell in 
which Blanche was confined. The jailer hesitated a 
moment. Marceau repeated the command in a more 
imperative tone, and the man obeyed, motioning to 
him to follow. 

“ She is not alone,” said his guide, opening the low 
arched door of a dungeon so dark that it made Marceau 
21 


322 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


shudder; “ but she ’ll soon be rid of her companion, for 
he ’s to be guillotined to-day.” 

With those words he closed the door on Marceau, 
urging him to abridge as much as possible an interview 
which might compromise him. 

Still dazzled by the sudden transition from light to 
darkness, Marceau put out his arms like a man walking 
in his sleep, trying to pronounce the word “Blanche,” 
which his mouth refused to form, and unable to pierce 
with his eyes the shadows that surrounded him. He 
heard a stifled cry. The girl threw herself into his 
arms; she had recognized him at once, for her eyes were 
already accustomed to the darkness. 

She threw herself into his arms, for there was a 
moment when terror caused her to forget her age and 
sex; she thought of nothing but the question of life or 
death. She clung to him as a shipwrecked sailor clings 
to a rock, with inarticulate sobs and a convulsive pres- 
sure of her arms. 

“ Ah ! ah ! you have not abandoned me ! ” she cried 
at last. “ They arrested me , dragged me here ; I saw 
Tinguy in the crowd that followed me; I cried: ‘ Mar- 
ceau ! Marceau ! ’ and he disappeared. Oh ! I was far 
from hoping to see you again — even here. But you 
have come — you have come — you won’t leave me. 
You will take me away; you won’t leave me here! ” 

“ I ‘Would willingly, at the price of all my blood, take 
you away instantly ; but — ” 

“Oh, pray look about you; feel of these dripping 
walls, this filthy straw I You are a general, can you 
not — ” 

“This is what I can do, Blanche: knock at yonder 
door, blow out the brains of the turnkey who opens it, 
take you out into the courtyard, let you breathe the 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


323 


fresh air and see the sky once more, and die in your 
defence; but when I am dead, Blanche, they will bring 
you back to this dungeon, and there will not be a single 
man left on earth who can save you.” 

“ But can you save me ? ” 

« Perhaps.” 

«Soon?” 

" In two days , Blanche ; I ask you for two days. 
But you must first answer a question on which your 
life and mine depend. Answer as you would answer 
God. Blanche, do you love me ? ” 

“ Is this the time and place when such a question 
should be asked, or when one can answer it? Do you 
think that these walls are used to hearing declarations 
of love ? ” » 

“ Yes, this is the proper time; for we are between life 
and the grave, between existence and eternity. Blanche, 
answer me quickly. Every moment robs us of a day, 
every hour of a year. Do you love me, Blanche? ” 

“ Oh ! yes, yes — ” 

The words escaped from the young girl’s heart, and, 
forgetting that no one could see her blushes, she hid 
her face on Marceau’s arm. 

“ Very well, Blanche, you must accept me on the spot 
as your husband. ” 

The girl quivered from head to foot. 

“ What can be your purpose ? ” 

“ My purpose is to snatch you from the jaws of death; 
we will see if they dare send the wife of a republican 
general to the scaffold.” 

Blanche understood his whole thought; she shuddered 
at the danger to which he would expose himself to save 
her. Her love gathered new strength; but, summoning 
all her courage, she said firmly, — 


324 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


“ It is impossible. ” 

“ Impossible ? ” echoed Marceau, “ impossible ? Why, 
this is madness! What obstacle can there be between 
us and happiness, since you have just confessed that 
you love me ? Do you think this is all child’s play ? 
Listen to me; listen, in God’s name: this means death 
to you I Do you hear 1 death on the scaffold, the heads- 
man, the tumbril, the knife ! ” 

“Oh! pity, pity! it is terrible! But think of your- 
self. When I am once your wife, if that title does 
not save me, it destroys you with me! ” 

“ So that is your reason for rejecting the only means 
of safety that is left open to you! Ah! well, listen to 
me, Blanche, for I have a confession to make to you. 
When I first saw you, I loved you; my love has become 
a passion; I live upon it as apart of my life. My life is 
yours ; my fate will be the same as yours; happiness or 
the scaffold, I will share everything with you; I will 
not leave you ; no human power can part us; or, if I do 
leave you, I have only to shout Vive, le roil Those 
words will throw your dungeon open to me again, and 
we will never leave it except together. Oh ! well , let 
it be so: a night in the same dungeon, a ride in the 
same tumbril, death on the same scaffold, that will be 
something.” 

“Oh! no, no! go! leave me, in Heaven’s name, leave 
me ! ” 

“You bid me go! Beware what you say and what 
you mean; for, if I go from here without having you 
for my own, without your giving me the right to defend 
you, I will go to your father — your father, whom you 
have forgotten, who is weeping for you — and I will 
say to him: ‘ Old man, your daughter might have been 
saved, but she did not choose; she preferred that your 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


325 


last days should be passed in mourning, and that her 
blood should he spattered on your gray hairs. Weep, 
old man, weep, — not because your daughter is dead, 
but because she did not love you enough to live. ’ ” 

Marceau pushed Blanche away ; she fell on her 
knees a few steps from him, and he walked back and 
forth, with clinched teeth, his arms folded across his 
breast, and the laughter of a madman, or one of the 
damned. He heard Blanche’s sobs, tears gushed from 
his eyes, his arms fell nervelessly at his sides, and he 
grovelled at her feet. 

“ Oh ! in pity’s name, by all that you hold most 
• sacred in this world, by your mother’s grave, Blanche, 
Blanche, consent to become my wife. You must; it is 
your duty.” 

“ Yes, it is your duty, young maiden,” said a strange 
voice, which made them both start and rise from the 
floor; “it is your duty, for it is the only way of pre- 
serving a life that is hardly beginning; religion com- 
mands you to do it, and I am ready to bless your 
union. ” 

Marceau turned in amazement, and recognized the 
cure of Sainte-Marie-de-Ehe, who was present at the 
assemblage he had attacked on the night Blanche became 
his prisoner. 

“ O father ! ” he cried, seizing his hand, and pulling 
him toward Blanche, “ obtain her consent to live.” 

“ Blanche de Beaulieu,” said the priest, in a solemn 
tone, “ in the name of your father, whom my years and 
the friendship between us entitle me to represent, I 
adjure you to yield to the entreaties of this young man, 
for your father himself, if he were here, would do as I 
do.” 

Blanche seemed to be torn by a thousand conflicting 


326 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


sentiments; but at last she threw herself into Marceau’s 
arms. 

“ 0 my love,” she said, “ I have not the strength to 
resist you longer. I love you, Marceau ! I love you, 
and I am your wife. ” 

Their lips met; Marceau’s joy was beyond bounds; 
he seemed to have forgotten everything. The priest’s 
voice soon roused him from his trance. 

“Make haste, my children,” he said; “for my 
moments here on earth are numbered ; and if you delay 
I can only give you my blessing from on high.” 

The lovers shuddered. That voice called them back 
to earth ! Blanche looked about her with fearful eyes. • 

“ 0 my love,” she said, “ what a moment to unite our 
destinies ! what a temple for a marriage ! Do you think 
that a union consecrated beneath these gloomy, depress- 
ing arches can be a happy and lasting one ? ” 

Marceau started; for he himself was assailed by 
superstitious terror. He led Blanche toward a part of 
the dungeon where the light, creeping between the 
crossed bars of a narrow air-hole, made the darkness less 
dense ; there they both fell on their knees, awaiting the 
priest’s blessing. 

He put forth his hand, and pronounced the sacred 
words. At the same moment there was the clashing of 
weapons and the measured tread of soldiers in the cor- 
ridor; Blanche, in deadly terror, threw herself into 
Marceau’s arms. 

“ Can it be that they have come for me already ? ” she 
cried. “ 0 my love, my love, how horrible death would 
be at this moment ! ” 

The young general had jumped in front of the door, 
a pistol in either hand. The soldiers fell back in 
amazement. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


327 


“Be not alarmed,” said the priest, coming forward. 
“ I am the one for whom they have come; I am the one 
who is to die.” 

The soldiers surrounded him. 

“ My children,” he exclaimed, in a firm voice, address- 
ing the newly-made husband and wife, — “to your 
knees, my children; with one foot in the grave I give 
you my last blessing, and a dying man’s blessing is 
sacred. ” 

The soldiers stood in awed silence; the priest took 
from his breast a crucifix, which he had succeeded in 
concealing from all eyes; he stretched it out toward 
them ; being prepared for death himself, he prayed for 
them. There was a moment of solemn silence, during 
which everybody believed in God. 

“ Forward ! ” said the priest. 

The soldiers surrounded him; the door closed, and 
the party disappeared like a nocturnal vision. 

Blanche threw herself into Marceau’s arms. 

“ Oh ! if you leave me, and they come for me in that 
way, if I have not you to help me pass through that 
door, oh ! Marceau ! think of it, — the scaffold ! I on 
the scaffold, far from you, weeping and calling you, and 
having no reply! Oh! do not go away, do not go away ! 
I will throw myself at their feet, I will tell them I am 
not guilty, and if they will leave me in prison with 
you all my life I will bless them. But if you leave 
me — Oh ! do not leave me ! ” 

“Blanche, I am sure of saving you; I will answer 
for your life. In less than two days I will be here with 
your pardon, and then it will not be a lifetime in a 
dungeon, but a lifetime of fresh air and happiness, of 
liberty and love! ” 

The door opened, and the jailer appeared. Blanche 


328 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


held Marceau more tightly in her arms; she would not 
let him go, and yet every moment was precious. He 
gently unclasped her hands, whose grasp detained him, 
and promised her that he would return before the close 
of the second day. 

“ Love me always,” he said, rushing from the cell. 

“ Always ! ” said Blanche, staggering back and point- 
ing to the red rose he had given her, which she wore in 
her hair; and the door closed upon her like the door of 
hell. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


329 


V. 

Marceau found General Dumas waiting in the jailer’s 
house ; he called for pen and ink and paper. 

“ What are you going to do 1 ” his friend asked, 
alarmed by his excitement. 

“ Write to Carrier, ask him for two days’ respite, and 
tell him that he will answer to me for Blanche’s life 
with his own.” 

“ Madman! ” rejoined his friend, snatching away the 
letter he had begun. “ You threaten, and you are in 
his power; have you not disobeyed the order you 
received to rejoin the army? Do you think that, when 
he is already afraid of you, his fears would pause even 
to find a plausible pretext? Within an hour you would 
be arrested; and then, what could you do, either for her 
or for yourself. Take my advice, and by your silence 
give him a chance to forget, for nothing but his forget- 
ting can save her.” 

Marceau’s head had fallen between his hands; he 
seemed to be reflecting deeply. 

“You are right,” he suddenly cried, springing to his 
feet. And he drew his friend into the street. 

A few people were assembled about a post-chaise. 

“If it should be foggy to-night,” said a voice, “I 
don’t know what should prevent a score of good fellows 
from coming into the town and carrying off the prisoners. 
It ’s shameful how poorly Nantes is guarded.” 

Marceau started, turned, recognized Tinguy, exchanged 
a meaning glance with him, and leaped into the vehicle. 

“ To Paris! ” he said to the postilion, giving him money. 


330 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


The horses set off with the swiftness of lightning. 
Everywhere there was the same diligence; everywhere, 
by the lavish use of money, Marceau obtained a promise 
that horses should be ready for him on the following 
day, and that no obstacle should delay his return. 

During the journey he learned that General Dumas 
had handed in his resignation , asking as a favor to be 
employed as a private in another army; he had, conse* 
quently, been placed at the disposal of the Committee 
of Public Safety, and was on his way to Nantes when 
Marceau met him on the Clisson road. 

At eight o’clock in the evening, the carriage contain- 
ing the two generals entered Paris. 

Marceau and his friend parted on Place du Palais- 
6galite. 

Marceau walked down Rue Saint-Honore toward 
Saint-Roch, stopped at number 366, and asked for 
Citizen Robespierre. 

“ He is at the Theatre de la Nation,” replied a girl 
of sixteen or eighteen; “ but if you will come again in 
two hours he will have returned. ” 

“Robespierre at the Theatre de la Nation! Aren’t 
you mistaken ? ” 

“No, citizen.” 

“ Very well, I will look for him there, and if I don’t 
find him I will return and wait for him here. This is 
my name: Citizen General Marceau.” 

The The^tre-Eran^ais had separated into two troupes : 
Talma, accompanied by the patriot actors, had emigrated 
to the Odeon. It was to that theatre, therefore, that 
Marceau found his way, amazed to have to seek the 
austere member of the Committee of Public Safety at a 
place of amusement. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


331 


They were playing “The Death of Caesar.” He entered 
the balcony ; a young man offered him a seat beside him 
in the front row. Marceau accepted it, hoping to see 
from there the man he sought. 

The play had not begun; the audience seemed to be 
in a strange state of effervescence ; laughter and signals 
were freely exchanged, and started, as from a sort of 
headquarters, from a group seated in the orchestra ; that 
group dominated the theatre, and was itself dominated 
by a single man: that man was Danton. 

Beside him, speaking when he was silent, holding 
their peace when he spoke, were Camille-Desmoulins, 
his fanatical worshipper, Philippaux, Herault de 
Sechelles, and Lacroix, his apostles. 

It was the first time that Marceau had found himself 
in the presence of that Mirabeau of the people. He 
would have recognized him by his loud voice, his 
imperious gestures, his lordly brow, even if his name 
had not been pronounced several times by his friends. 

We ask indulgence while we say a few words as to 
the state of the different factions into which the Con- 
vention was divided. They are essential to a proper 
understanding of the scene which follows. 

The Commune and Mountain had joined forces to 
bring about the revolution of the 31st of May. The 
Girondins, after having tried in vain to effect a federa- 
tion of the provinces, had fallen, almost undefended, in 
the midst of those who had chosen them and who simply 
did not dare to shelter them in the days of their pro- 
scription. Before the 31st of May, the power was 
nowhere ; after the 31st of May they felt the necessity of 
joining forces in order to make prompt action possible. 
The Assembly possessed the most extensive power; a 
faction had taken possession of the Assembly; a few 


332 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


men swayed that faction; naturally, the power was in 
the hands of those men. The Committee of Public 
Safety, up to the 31st of May, had been made up of 
neutral members of the Convention; the time for its 
renewal arrived, and the extreme Montagnards made 
places for themselves upon it. Barrere remained as a 
representative of the former committee, but Robespierre 
was chosen a member; Saint-Just, Collot d’Herbois, 
and Billaud-Varennes, supported by him, put down 
their colleagues, Herault de Sechelles and Robert 
Lindet; Saint-Just undertook the duty of surveillance, 
Couthon that of softening down propositions that were 
too violent in tone; Billaud-Varennes and Collot 
d’Herbois managed the proconsulates of the depart- 
ments; Carnot attended to the department of war, 
Cambon to the finances, Prieur (de la Cote-d’Or) and 
Prieur (de la Marne) to internal and administrative 
affairs; and Barrere, who soon joined them, became the 
daily orator of the party. As for Robespierre, he had 
no defined functions, but exercised a general oversight 
of the whole, commanding that political body as the 
head commands the material body and makes every 
member act in obedience to its will. 

In that party the Revolution was incarnate; it was 
bent upon carrying out the Revolution with all its con- 
sequences, so that the people might some day enjoy all 
its results. 

That party had to contend against two others: one 
wished to outdo it, the other to hold it back. Those 
two parties were : — 

The Commune , represented by Hebert. 

The Mountain, represented by Danton. 

In “ Pere Duchesne ” Hebert popularized obscenity of 
speech; insult followed the victims and laughter the exe- 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


333 


cutions. In a short time it made tremendous progress. 
The Bishop of Paris and his vicars abjured Christianity ; 
the Catholic worship was replaced by the worship of 
Eeason, the churches were closed; Anacharsis Clootz 
became the apostle of the new goddess. The Committee 
of Public Safety took fright at the power of this ultra- 
revolutionary faction, which they thought had fallen 
with Marat, and which rested on immorality and athe- 
ism ; Kohespierre undertook to attack it single-handed. 
On December 5, 1793, he defied it from the tribune; 
and the Convention, which had perforce applauded the 
abjurations at the demand of the Commune, decreed, at 
the demand of Eobespierre, who also had a religion of 
his own to establish, that all violence and all measures 
contrary to liberty of worship were forbidden. 

Dan ton, in the name of the moderate portion of the 
Mountain, demanded the overthrow of the revolutionary 
government; the “ Yieux Cordelier,” edited by Camille 
Desmoulins, was the organ of the party. The Com- 
mittee of Public Safety, that is to say, the dictatorship, 
was created, in its view, only to repress within and con- 
quer without; and as the committee had been repressed 
within and beaten on the frontier, it — that is, the party 
led by Danton — demanded that a power which had 
become useless should be shattered in order that it 
might not subsequently become dangerous; the Eevolu- 
tion had pulled down, the Dantonists wished to rebuild 
on ground that had not been cleared. 

These were the three factions by which the Conven- 
tion was torn in the early days of 1794, when the action 
of our narrative takes place. Eohespierre accused Hebert 
of atheism and Danton of corruption ; he was accused by 
them of ambition, and the word dictator began to be 
whispered. 


334 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


Such, then, was the condition of affairs when Marceau, 
as* we have said, saw Danton for the first time, as he was 
using the orchestra for a tribune, and tossing words of 
weighty import to those who surrounded him. The play 
was “ The Death of Caesar; ” the word had been passed 
to tlie Dantonists ; they were all present at the perform- 
ance, and, at a signal from their leader, they were to 
signify the application of these lines to Robespierre: 

Oui, que Cesar soit grand, mais que Rome soit libre. 

Dieux ! maitresse de ITnde, esclave aux bords du Tibre, 
Qu’importe que son nom commande a I’univers, 

Et qu’on I’appelle reiiie alors qu’elle est aux fers 1 
Qu’importe k ma patrie, aux Romains que tu braves, 
D’apprendre que Cesar a de nouveaux esclaves ! 

Les Persans ne sont pas nos plus tiers ennemis ; 

II en est de plus grands. Je n’ai pas d’autre avis.^ 

And that is why Robespierre, who had been warned 
by Saint- Just, was at the Theatre de la Nation that 
evening; for he realized what a weapon in the hands of 
his enemies the charge they made against him would 
be, if they succeeded in popularizing it. 

But Marceau looked in vain for him in that bril- 
liantly lighted hall, where the line of the boxes alone 
remained in a sort of half-darkness, because of the pro- 
truding of the galleries above them; and his eyes, 
fatigued by the vain search, returned constantly to the 

1 Ay, let Caesar, if you will, be great, but let Rome be free. 

Ye gods ! of all the Indies mistress, but on Tiber’s banks a slave, 
What boots it that her name doth sway the universe. 

And that she ’s called a queen, when she with chains is laden ? 
What boots it to my country, to the Romans whom you defy, 

To learn that Cassar hath new slaves ? 

The Persians are not our most arrogant foes ; 

There are greater than they. I say no more. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 335 

group in the orchestra, whose noisy conversation attracted 
the attention of the whole audience. 

“I saw our dictator to-day,” said Danton. “They 
undertook to make peace between us.” 

“ Where did you meet ? ” 

“At his rooms; I had to climb the Incorruptible’s 
three flights.” 

“ What did you say to each other ? ” 

“ I said that I was fully aware of the Committee’s 
hatred of me, hut that I did not fear it. He answered 
that I was wrong, that they had no evil intentions with 
respect to me, hut that we must have an understanding.” 

“ An understanding ! an understanding ! that would 
be very well with people who act in good faith.” 

“ That is just the answer I made him; at that he drew 
in his lips and wrinkled his forehead. I continued : 
‘ Of course the royalists must he put down; but we must 
strike no blows except such as will do some good, and 
not confound the innocent with the guilty.’ — ‘ Why, 
who told you,’ retorted Eobespierre, sharply, ‘ that any 
innocent man has been put to death ? ’ — ‘ What do 
you say to that? no innocent men put to death! ’ I 
cried, turning to Herault de Sechelles, who was with 
me; and I came away.” 

“ Was Saint-Just there ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What did he say ? ” 

“He ran his hand through his fine black hair, and 
from time to time arranged the knot of his cravat like 
Eobespierre’s.” 

Marceau’s neighbor, whose head was resting on his 
hands, started and uttered the sort of hissing noise that 
comes from between the clinched teeth of a man who is 
holding himself back; Marceau paid little heed to him. 


336 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


and turned his attention once more to Danton and his 
friends. 

“ The coxcomb! ” said Camille Desmoulins, referring 
to Saint- Just; "he has so high an opinion of himself 
that he carries his head respectfully on his shoulders, 
like the blessed sacrament.” 

Marceau’s neighbor removed his hands, and Marceau 
recognized the gentle, beautiful face of Saint- Just, pale 
with anger. 

He rose and drew himself up to his full height. 

“I will make you carry yours like a Saint-Denis, 
Desmoulins! ” he exclaimed. 

Thereupon he turned and left the balcony, the people 
standing aside to let him pass. 

“Well, well! who would have supposed he was so 
near?” laughed Danton. “Faith, the package reached 
its address. ” 

“ By the way, Danton,” said Philippaux, “ have you 
seen Lava’s pamphlet against you ? ” 

“What say you? Laya writes pamphlets ? Let him 
rewrite the ‘ Friend of the Laws.’ I should like right 
well to read it, — the pamphlet, I mean.” 

“Here it is.” 

Philippaux handed him a pamphlet. 

“ And he signed \i,pardieu ! Why , he does n’t know, 
it seems, that if he doesn’t hide in my cellar they ’ll 
cut off his head. ” 

“Hush! hush! the curtain is rising.” 

The word hush ! passed from mouth to mouth through 
the hall ; hut a young man who was not in the plot con- 
tinned to carry on a private conversation, although the 
actors were on the stage. Danton put out his hand, 
touched him with his finger, and said, with courtesy, 
in which there was a slight admixture of irony : — 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


337 


“ Citizen Arnault, let me listen as if they were play- 
ing ‘Marius at Minturnae.’ ” 

The young author knew too much not to respect a 
request conveyed in those terms; he held his peace, and 
the most absolute silence made it possible for every one 
to listen to one of the worst plays that ever was put 
upon the stage , — “ The Death of Caesar. ” 

But notwithstanding that silence, it was evident that 
no participant in the little conspiracy we have described 
had forgotten the purpose for which he had come. 
Glances were exchanged, signals became more frequent 
as the actors approached the passage which was to call 
forth the explosion. 

“ It ’s in Scene III.,” Danton whispered to Camille. 

And he was repeating the lines with the actors, as if 
to hasten their delivery, when this passage occurred, 
immediately preceding that for which they were 
waiting: — 

Cesar, nous attendions de ta clemeuce auguste 
Uii don plus precieux, une faveur plus juste, 
Au-dessus des Etats donnes par ta bonte. 

Cl^SAR. 

Qu’oses-tu demander, Cimber? 

CiMBER. 

La liberte ! ^ 

Three salvoes of applause greeted the words. 


1 Ctesar, we look to thy great clemency 
For a more precious gift, a juster favor, 
Above the States bestowed by thy kind heart. 
C^SAR. 

What dar’st thou ask, 0 Cimber ! 


Cimber. 

22 


Liberty ! 


r 


338 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


“ All goes well,” said Danton. 

He half rose from his seat. 

Talma began ; — 

“ Oui, que Cesar soit grand, mais que Rome soit libre — ” 

Danton stood erect, casting about him the glance that 
a general casts over his army, assuring himself that 
every man is at his post, when suddenly his eyes rested 
on a certain point in the hall. The front of a box was 
raised; Robespierre protruded his sharp-featured, livid 
face. The eyes of the two enemies met, and could not 
look away from each other; there was in Robespierre’s 
eyes all the irony of triumph, all the insolence of 
security. For the first time Danton felt a cold perspi- 
ration start out all over his body. He forgot the signal 
he was to give; the lines passed without applause or 
murmurs; he fell hack beaten; the front of the box 
was raised , and all was said. The guillotineurs carried 
the day over the Septemhy'iseurs : 93 imposed a spell 
upon 92. 

Marceau, whose mind was engrossed by something 
very different from the tragedy, was perhaps the only 
one who witnessed, without understanding it, the scene 
w’e have described, which lasted only a few seconds. He 
had time, however, to recognize Robespierre; he rushed 
from the balcony, and arrived in the corridor in time to 
meet him. 

He was as calm and cool as if nothing had happened. 
Marceau accosted him, and mentioned his name. Robes- 
pierre offered him his hand; Marceau, yielding to his 
first impulse, withheld his own. A hitter smile passed 
over Robespierre’s lips. 

“ What do you want of me ? ” he asked. 

“ An interview of a few moments. ” 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


339 


“ Here, or at my house ? ” 

“ At your house. ” 

“ Come, then.” 

And the two men, agitated by such widely different 
emotions, walked away, side by side: Kobespierre, calm 
and indifferent; Marceau, excited and curious. 

So this was the man who held Blanche’s destiny in 
his hands; the man of whom he had heard so much, 
whose incorruptibility alone was evident, but whose 
popularity could not but seem a problem. In truth, 
he had made use of none of the methods employed by 
his predecessors to gain popularity. He had neither 
the enthralling eloquence of Mirabeau, nor the pater- 
nal firmness of Bailly, nor the sublime impetuosity of 
Danton, nor the obscene arts of Hebert; if he worked 
for the people, he did it secretly, and without render- 
ing an account of his work to the people. Amid the 
general levelling of language and costume, he had re- 
tained his polished speech and his fashionable dress ; ^ 
in fact, he seemed to take as much pains to hold him- 
self above the common herd as others took to mingle 
with it; and one would readily understand, at first 
sight, that that singular being must be either an idol or 
a victim of the multitude : he was both. 

They reached the house. A narrow staircase led them 
to a room on the third fioor; Eobespierre opened the 
door. A bust of Eousseau, a table on which the “ Con- 

1 Robespierre’s usual attire is so well known that it has become 
almost proverbial. On the 20th Prairial, the day of the Feast of 
the Supreme Being, whose pontiff he was, he was dressed in a blue 
coat, a waistcoat of embroidered muslin over pink ; black satin 
breeches, white silk stockings, and shoes with buckles completed 
the costume. He wore the same coat when he was carried to the 
scaffold. 


340 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


trat Social ” and “ £mile ” lay open, a commode and a 
few chairs were the only furniture of the room. But 
the greatest neatness prevailed everywhere. 

Eobespierre saw the effect produced on Marceau by 
the sight. 

“This is Caesar’s palace,” he said, with a smile; 
“what have you to ask the dictator?” 

“ The pardon of my wife, condemned to death by 
Carrier.” 

“Your wife, condemned by Carrier! the wife of 
Marceau, the republican of the days of antiquity! 
the Spartan soldier ! What is Carrier doing at Nantes, 
pray ? ” 

“ Atrocious things.” 

Marceau thereupon drew an outline of the picture 
we have placed before the reader’s eyes. Robespierre, 
during his recital, twisted about on his chair without 
interrupting ; at last Marceau came to an end. 

“ So that is how I am always to be understood,” said 
Robespierre, in a hoarse voice, — for his emotion was so 
great as to effect that change in his tone, — “ wherever 
my eyes are not present to see and my hand to check 
useless carnage ! There is enough blood that it is abso- 
lutely necessary to shed, and we are not at the end of 
it yet.” 

“ But about my wife’s pardon, Robespierre? ” 

Robespierre took a sheet of white paper. 

“ Her maiden name ? ” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ It is necessary for me to establish her identity.” 

“ Blanche de Beaulieu. ” 

Robespierre dropped the pen he held. 

“ The daughter of the Marquis de Beaulieu, the leader 
of the brigands ? ” 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 341 

“Blanche de Beaulieu, the Marquis de Beaulieu’s 
daughter.” 

“ How does it happen that she is your wife ? ” 
Marceau told him the whole story. 

“Young fool! young madman!” he exclaimed; “do 
you know — ? ” 

Marceau interrupted him. 

“I did not come to ask for insults or advice; I ask 
you for her pardon. Will you give it me ? ” 

“ Marceau, will family ties, the influence of love, ever 
induce you to betray the Republic ? ” 

“ Never.” 

“ Suppose you should find yourself face to face with 
the Marquis de Beaulieu, sword in hand? ” 

“ I should fight him as I have already done. ” 

“ And suppose he should fall into your hands ? ” 
Marceau reflected a moment. 

“ I would send him to you, and you yourself should 
be his judge.” 

“ Do you swear to that ? ” 

“ On my honor. ” 

Robespierre took up the pen once more. 

“ Marceau,” he said, “ you have had the good fortune 
to keep yourself pure in everybody’s sight; I have 
known of you for a long time ; I have long desired to 
see you.” 

Noticing Marceau ’s impatience, he wrote the first 
three letters of his name, then stopped. 

“ Listen : I ask you to give me five minutes now,” he 
said, gazing earnestly at Marceau. “ I give you a whole 
life in return for five minutes; they will be well paid 
for.” 

Marceau made a motion to signify that he would 
listen. Robespierre continued ; — 


342 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


“Some one has slandered me to you, Marceau; and 
yet you are one of the few men by whom I wish to he 
really known; for what care I for the judgment of men 
whom I do not esteem? Listen, then : three assemblies 
have in turn sought to guide the destiny of France, have 
been each represented by one man, and have accom- 
plished the mission with which the age intrusted them : 
the Constituent, represented by Mirabeau, shook the 
foundations of the throne; the Legislative, incarnate in 
Danton, overthrew it. The work of the Convention is 
immense, for it is called upon to finish the work of tear- 
ing down and to begin that of rebuilding. I have in 
my mind a lofty aspiration, — to become the type of this 
period, as Mirabeau and Danton, respectively, were the 
types of theirs. In the history of the French people 
there will be three men, represented by the figures 91, 
92, 93. If the Supreme Being gives me time to finish 
my work, my name will be above all names; I shall 
have done more than Lycurgus among the Greeks, than 
Numa at Rome, than Washington in America; for each 
of them had only a people just born to pacify, while I 
have an ancient, outworn society to regenerate. If I 
fall — spare me from uttering a blasphemy against you 
in my last hour, 0 my God! — if I fall before the 
allotted time, my name, which will have accomplished 
only the half of what it had to do, will retain the stain 
of blood that the other part would have wiped out ; the 
Revolution will fall with it, and both will be calum- 
niated. — That is what I had to say to you, Marceau; 
for I wish that certain men should, in any event, keep 
my name living and pure in their hearts, like the flame 
of the lamp in the tabernacle, and you are one of those 
men. ” 

He finished writing his name. 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 343 

“ And now, here is your wife’s pardon. You can go 
without even giving me your hand. ” 

Marceau took his hand and wrung it; he tried to 
speak, but there were so many tears in his voice that 
he could not articulate a word, and Eobespierre spoke 
first. 

“ Come, you must go; there is not a moment to lose. 
Au revoir ! ” 

Marceau rushed downstairs; General Dumas was 
coming up as he went down. 

“I have her pardon!” he cried, throwing himself 
into his arms; “ I have her. pardon. Blanche is 
saved! ” 

“Congratulate me too,” his friend replied. “I have 
just been appointed commander-in-chief of the army of 
the Alps, and I have come to thank Eobespierre.” 

They embraced. Marceau rushed into the street, 
hurried to Place du Palais-Egalite, where his carriage 
awaited him, ready to depart with the same speed with 
which it had brought him thither. 

What a burden was lifted from his heart! what hap- 
piness awaited him! what joy after so much sorrow! 
His imagination plunged into the future; he anticipated 
the moment when, from the threshold of the dungeon, 
he should cry to his wife : “ Blanche ! you are free 
through my efforts; come, Blanche, and let your love 
and your kisses pay the debt of your life.” 

Prom time to time, however, a vague feeling of un- 
easiness passed through his mind, a sudden chill struck 
his heart. At such times he urged on the postilions, 
promised them money, gave it them lavishly and prom- 
ised more; the wheels flew along the pavement; the 
horses devoured the road, and yet it seemed to him that 
they were hardly moving ! Everywhere the relays were 


344 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


ready, there was no delay; everything seemed to par- 
take of the excitement by which he was possessed. In 
a few hours he had left Versailles, Chartres, Le Mans, 
and La Fleche behind him; he saw Angers in the dis- 
tance. Suddenly he felt a terrible, appalling shock; the 
carriage was overturned and broken. He rose, bruised 
and bleeding, cut the traces of one of the horses with 
his sword, leaped quickly upon him, galloped to the 
first posting station, hired a race-horse, and continued 
his journey even more swiftly than before. 

At last he has passed Angers, espies Ingrande, rides 
through Varades and Ancenis. His horse is dripping 
with foam and blood; he passes Saint-Donatien, and 
Nantes is in sight, — Nantes! which contains his soul, 
his life, his future! A few moments more and he will 
be in the city. He reaches the gate; his horse falls 
exhausted in front of the Bouffays prison; he has 
arrived, so what matters it! 

“Blanche! Blanche!” 

“Two tumbrils just left the prison yard,” said the 
turnkey; “she was on the first.” 

“ Malediction!” 

And Marceau darts away on foot, amid the people 
who are hurrying in vast throngs toward the public 
square. He overtakes the last of the two tumbrils; one 
of the condemned men recognizes him. 

“ Save her, general. I could n’t do it, and I was 
taken. Vive le roi and the good cause! ” 

It was Tinguy. 

“Yes, yes!” 

Marceau opens a path for himself; the crowd jostles 
and crushes him, but carries him on; he arrives on the 
square in the midst of the crowd; he is facing the 
scaffold, he waves his paper, shouting: — 


BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 


345 


“ Pardon ! pardon ! ” 

At that moment the executioner, bolding up a young 
girl’s head by its long, fair hair, presented the hideous 
spectacle to the people ; the horrified crowd turned away, 
for they fancied that it was vomiting torrents of blood! 
— Suddenly, from the midst of that silent multitude, a 
frenzied cry arose, in which all the human forces seemed 
to be concentrated. Marceau had recognized, between 
the teeth of that head, the red rose he had given the 
young Vendean. 


THE END. 




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